The Road

We love this road, it has trees. The manicured ladies stand upon the lawns, beacon with unwinking eyes, scrutinize beneath shading hands, pry open primped lips, proclaim their fierce love. We love this road, it has folks. Those maladjusted to suburbia hear and move on knowing they are not to be loved. The road goes along until it renames itself at a quaggy stretch riddled with renters and other suspects. We love to be just here where everybody loves our road. The mowers go chagigah here. The lemonade stands go chug-a-lug. The chemically clean love to be seen. Minivans rage quietly as they bake, and drive backwards into the sun. Every day our love is green and yellow and sprinklered. In every way we testify to the love we have for this well-regulated wellness. Neighbors slow-pass gawk in their cars, arms parading and waving at the well turned-out children, the small curly dogs. A cavalcade keeping up to whatever is better. We love this place, it has yards, love to be this well situated, planted and plotted, mail-boxed, and groomed to be fixtures. Buzzards whisper on high, as the toothy and pumped-up flex their love openly, declare a solid solidarity - watch each other closely for any flaw in the matrix.