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Poem
The industrial hull of the SUV 
Sways with the slightest wind taps 
And pothole shoves. Popeye’s signs, 
Golden shell displays, the lingering smell 
Of Premium-grade gasoline. 
The prices are Down, but our gas meter still 
teeters closely, Dangerously, just inches away 
from zero. Still, we push on.
 
We pass Targets and Walmarts, 
advertising last minute holiday sales. 
We pass packed churches, 
Minute investment banks, 
and lush green fields 
Of ochre and chamomile.
 
We love it here, when it's like this, 
swaying and moving and existing and living, 
traffic lights blinking signaling malfunction, 
creaky train tracks rattling under thick rubber tires, 
Black faces covered in bandanas, 

riding sterling White horses on cobblestone streets, 
homes stuffed with joyous presents and family love. 
Christmas lights line walls and corners like cobwebs, 
bells jingle and chestnuts roast. 

A stray dog hurtles through aqua-hued 
Alleys, neighborhood convenient stores shut the
Shutters for the night. Randall’s BBQ pit sits 
Idle in front of the Dollar General. We almost get
in a wreck near the intersection 

outside of the neighborhood.
I cry, 
my clothes dampen from stress-induced sweat. 
We pass backyards, 
homes, 
estates. 
Wired, wood, corrugated fences, 
kids jumping over them, 
gaining scarlet scabs on knees, 
fences beautifully embroidered, 
decorated with ivy from hobby lobby 
and signs that read, “beware of dog!” 

But still, we push on.
 
We move through the backyard, 
inching slowly on St. Augustine grass, 
slithering like scaled snakes past the 
Water hose and dog cage. 
The pitbull’s mouth foams with slimy goop, 
but he pays no mind. 
We sway smoothly like wind to the 
living room window. 
No one here. 

We love it here, when it's like this. 
We see jewelry, shoes, jackets, 
petticoats, purses, monster trucks, 
guitars, Barbies. We see a red light 
beaming from an alarm on the wall, 
meaning “armed.” 

But still, we push on.
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