In a Suburban Paradise

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From the anthology, Complaining to the Clock, a work in progress.

In A Suburban Paradise

I was to spend hours on my bed 
writing short stories in 1967;
with my left leg dangling over the left side, 
I sat on the right leg,
like I was some nosy bird nesting on a log, 
watching life and its endless intrigues,
concerning a sad lonely woman 
in a suburban paradise.

I would stare at the quaint white house next door, 
the Barren home,
staid residence of John and Ann, 
a quiet couple in their childless fifties;
He, who went to work in a pink Ford 
carrying a black lunchbox;
She, who stayed home 
wearing loose revealing smocks, 
while painting mysterious pictures 
under green stretching avocado branches 
in their open backyard patio,
paved with red bricks.

I was to grow fond of brunette Ann, 
as I secretly spied on her as any boy my age might,
and watched her create art, 
but only from a curious safe distance
through the concealing aluminum screen 
of my open bedroom window; 
she, with upright easel, a dozen brushes, and
interesting gesticulating body movements,
while conversing in a low whisper 
with either herself, or perhaps a ghostly lover.

And I, fifteen years old, and curious,
oh so curious, describing with pencil in one hand 
and an open notebook set before me,
a lonely sad lady with brown curly hair named Ann,
as she painted with pointed strokes and flourishes, 
dripping desperate paint upon a white loose smock,
and I wondered, oh, I was curious indeed,
as to what she was painting on her big white canvas, 
and what bright sensational colors she might be using.

It was not until a few years later that
I found out what Ann had been creating in 1967;
Not paintings with color-laden flowers or trees, 
but grim drab buildings filled with trauma;
Of a bout with metastatic breast cancer, 
leaving Ann with a flat arid chest, 
barely covered by the loose smocks she wore, 
ripped smocks picturing drab flowers and trees; 
Of private violent incidents with John, 
who beat her with an old Navy hand,
which, five days a week in 1967, 
carried a black lunchbox to work.

Years were to go by 
after those curious artistic scenes next door, 
and I have often thought about Ann. 
Divorce and death followed eventually.
Their quaint white house stands mutely today 
a half century later, 
with the laconic oleanders out front bending a little, 
in abject exhaustion toward the ancient street, 
not willing to speak about the unspeakable; 
those secret untold tales of pain and trauma,
done furtively with the back of an old Navy hand,
to the whispering fragile artist living next door,
in a suburban paradise.

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