We All Grew Up in the Suburbs

A latticework of gutters weave
Our many discrete lives tight,
So even if neighbors stay nameless,
At least we can claim community;
A community of refuse and runoff.

In between passing cars,
The fresh black streets shine at night
And dream in asphalt vocabularies.

Our winter sledding hill
Reclines over the tall remnants
Of forgotten native tenements-
A burial mound from that-one-tribe.

In split-level raised-ranch outposts
Twelve distinct Sarahs
Fold cootie-catchers
And pray for twelve Steves
To notice them.

On the corner, an old man collects
Cans and regrets and talks
To his silhouette every night,
Lit by the electron glow of 1967.

We call the man ‘old coot’
Or ‘geezer’
And the less witty joke
'he's no spring chicken'

His sepia toned monarchy
Of war stories and gin
Rules over his half-acre of sod
Like some ancient bastion
Of memory and loss
Fortressed by stacks
Of aluminum cans.

The smaller domains next door
Curtain their obligations with
Refrigerator calendars and
Fall asleep to the sound of
Idling Suburbans in the street.

It’s here in the hounds-tooth geometry of
Shingled American Dreams
We find our weakness-
Security, stability, and all that grayness.

The old stranger watches intently
As a pack of teens waltz down the sidewalk.
“Look!” the excited codger says to his shadow-
“Steve has dropped a Dr. Pepper can in the gutter!”