Suburban Dream
Suburbia is a nap.
Not an early evening nap that fades to night and eases into the next morning,
but one of those thirty minute cat naps after which the sleeper jolts awake
in a state of confusion and spends the remainder of the slow,
technicolor day disoriented
like ordering a plate of chicken fingers at a five-star steakhouse.
Chicken fingers–no spicy mustard. Suburbia is not spicy mustard; rather,
an afternoon montage of reminiscing over a full sink of dishes and a screaming toddler–
hold that thought, the housekeeper took care of that and the preschooler’s in daycare
is a trend. The summation of which is best juxtaposed to a chain store…
at the mall…
the morning the store dispenses the twenty percent off coupon…
after all, Gucci is expensive.
Welcome to the suburbs, where cliquing it is a sure bet to a ticket to Bunko night,
with clouds, but no rain–
there’s water sprinklers that turn on right after the recycling is sat on the curb
painted in eggshell–an eggshell colored curb to match redundant, cardboard houses…
bored is the right word,
gray-colored boredom behind
house after house,
row after row,
cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac,
week after week,
day after day,
hour after hour,
minute after minute,
second after
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