Stalled performance & she notices
the hoarse noise that ropes around
the engine. Slight vibration’ n the stillness
between soundproof windows & oversized lawns.
Fretful fingertips drumming her hand reaching in
the glove compartment. Smartphone. - overdue oil change
that kind of stuff that troubles the Suburbanite.
Swift rounding moves and she’s turning the wheels.
Into traffic, fluorescent lights & humming.
Glittering clouds immerse the highways, the city;
into the space hungry vehicles’ surroundings
you vanish ’n alikeness– a car among million other
amorphous outfits figureless beyond tinted windows
the kind of stuff that doesn't trouble the Suburbanite.
Pedestrian silhouettes, urban coquettes’re forgotten
like those obsolete costumed parades with cape
& panache from college.
Your children grow unaware of
the compactness of cities the overwhelming presence of people every street corner
the unity of farmers as contrast to the vastness of crop-fields
Does this even trouble your kind Suburbanite?
For you built on a base-ment dis-loyal to the concept
beyond the social artifact. You did topple ancient topologies
in an attempt to squeeze out those you labeled as untouchables
and it did not seem to trouble you much Suburbanite.
the wordle prompt :