chain-link
fences and clean-cut lawns,
brick
ramblers, an old woman
squatting in
the driveway
hand-paving
the last patch with a spatula,
a reservoir
of concrete in a frying pan and
her straw
hat broad to block out the sun.
carloads of
men are casing the neighborhood,
throwing a
brick through the kid's window
and stealing
grandpa’s stopwatch,
making the
whole family cry.
around the
corner from the Vietnamese karaoke bar
that doesn’t
carry gin, there’s a man who lies
in bed all
day watching porn and dreaming of starting
a pumpkin
patch in the empty lot behind the house.
a line of high-powered
electrical wires weaves along the top
lighting us
up at night, the buzzing always audible.
Good stuff.
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