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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Cosmopolitan suburbs take shape Seem to form alone, not far from the metropolis Streets bustle, enlist design by men Drawn down the road by agents In leather solid boots tied together Buildings line up one by one, become cities In the calm one structure at a time evolves There on the outskirts of timid town Rising from the dirt, from nothing A flirt with creation on the street Laid down on asphalt beds, no secrets Familiar as a name not said, aligned Not far from the metropolitan site Enlisted are construction workers There to create under hard hat dawn Concrete, lumber and brick drawn down Blueprints sit pretty in sun light and beams of wood There on the outskirts of town, worthy to build on A home, a structure to call your own Usual forms materialize with nature in layers Seem to build themselves communities Crop up as large as timber Sometimes it is hard to find your way home With so much going on, on the lumbered sidewalk The road to success is always under construction My house has a number above a wooden door Such a detail can be useful to get inside Steps lead the way on silent stones When I go home, get in, my world slows down Universe stops or shrinks in size, to be defined There are many wooden skeletal chairs there Fixated around a dining table when I arrive Waiting for a holiday or family to come together No prayers are said these days however It’s just a dining area, nothing more A bed is hidden somewhere in another room It keeps secrets but mostly it keeps sleep Buried under pillows and quilts and sheets Furniture remembers everything The kitchen is the center of it all It comes in reds and yellows with a sink and range Fires from the stove ravage meats and vegetables to taste Such alterations make them manageable to eat Ice cubes in the freezer trays stay there complacently Waiting for someone’s drink, a friendly hand to warm them Home has a shower down the hall Cabinets full of towels and soap lie beneath the sink Clean thoughts from wall to wall TV turned up loud in the living room To keep the screams serene and meek An old phone in plastic black rings and rings out emptiness Lies lazy on the antique table, stationary, waiting Sits by the ancient sofa hugging floor Listens for someone to answer back There is an echo running through the halls No one picks up or listens when I’m not home Outside however, work goes on
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