Suburbia

Out in the fields

the slaughterhouse seems

so far away,

dreams still live,

the future open and free,

tomorrow certain and secure;

little do they know;

the cattle truck is on its way.

The circle is closing,

and you wonder

if this is the best there is,

or more importantly,

if this is all there is,

as if it ever mattered

one way or the other,

yet still you wonder,

and you forget,

and you remember,

over and over again;

everything changes,

everything remains the same.

The days become harder,

movement nonexistent,

just a little farther,

only a little longer,

holding on with what

little there is,

living for letting go,

waiting for the last breath,

pretending it matters,

wishing it didn't;

knowing it never will.

In central suburbia

the waves wash quietly

upon forgotten shores,

nothing is ever what it seems,

no one is ever who they say,

looking down from sacred ground,

privileged and blessed,

safe and secure,

flags flying high,

apple pies cooling

on kitchen counters;

‘those’ people are ruining the country,

‘those’ people don’t belong here;

and all I ever wanted was you.

.

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