The ‘burbs


Hey, men have nipples;

they just don’t work.

And women have balls;

they just can’t be seen.


Summer time in the suburbs

is lawns so green

astroturf turns pale,

and concrete doesn’t have cracks.

Children need to skin

their knees right.

In the morning the smell

of greasy, barbecued chicken.


Your daughters laugh

at a starling who impales

its beak on a roll

left out on the grass.

By evening the sparrows

are picking it apart

in the federal building parking lot.

Those sparrows are good adapters,

they can rip the shit out of

a tiger swallowtail at the supermarket.


An hour before sundown

you can put your water through

a green hose on the grass.

Would you like to see

the fire of water?

Watch the evening light

catch the fountain of a sprinkler.

Bright as red devils

on a dark fourth of July.


first published in Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.

About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

One response to “The ‘burbs”

  1. yassy says :

    Great. I enjoyed this.


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