Boxes wrap around the end of the street,
Boxes —
Where the pulse pounds against the side panels.
Mirrored driveways trace the same edge of each yard,
Meticulously washed every Sunday after the game,
Pressure washers whine in unison as the waters circle the storm drains.
Manicured lawns that make golf courses look unkempt,
Dressed with saccharine roses,
You can’t help but stop —
To lean down,
Taking in the breath of their flesh.
Pruned-back trees,
Hedges trimmed with ruler precision.
A neighborhood watch —
That has you shoulder checking every step.
All of the lives structured with fine print,
And a fine tooth comb regimen before every appearance.
Weekly block parties jail Saturday’s freedoms,
Everyone comes out to play.
Potlucks, drinks, music, and dancing into the night.
Phatic conversation buzzing into the open air,
Over the screaming children.
Wandering eyes grazing,
Finding —
Something sweet.
Doors left unlocked in harmonious complacency.
Flickers of light peeking through the twitching blinds,
A rhythmic dance on the half-hour —
Two stepping around the curve.
Windows cracked wide,
Bushes rustling on the cool breeze,
A melody of suburbia flowing freely in the night.
Footprints —
Haunting the flower beds beneath them.