Our houses, spitting-distance close
Feet propped on railing
cold beer with fresh lime
watching robins flung in flocks
to the failing of August
Too close-- Really?
John, on his cell
is fu_king the world again
from his garage
Why not-- squeeze in pool or a dog
Lawn mowers and **** whips tune in to whine
late Friday afternoon 'bout dinner time
Clinking silver, scrapes of plates
Running water for suds
through open windows to the thunk of pots
Doors bang behind on pathway to garbage
or joint in the woods
wafting over all
wordless squeals of delight from autistic child
Meanwhile, the odor of nail polish removes
all doubts of--
--Gawd!
lodging low and toxic
as the sun dissolves orange
in its acetone setting
Kids playing Man Hunt as darkness falls
Leaping hedges, slamming gates
No yards can contain these kinetics
restless legs, furtive minds
Muttering wind chimes
from four different porches
above the drone of highway
a half mile yawns
Pieces of talk
flipping the crickets
over--
Why or who or at what time?
Other-worldly glow from The Mall
dims stars
outlines mountains
brightens the horizon behind
Mosquitoes coming in for a landing
In "The Plot" section of Scranton, all the houses are really close. Built by poorer miners, mostly between 1920 and 1950, it has an old residential feel to it-- nothing like today's sprawling suburbs. Most of these homes had only four or five rooms, originally with "outdoor plumbing," if you know what I mean.
Oddly this is a very stable neighborhood, isolated somewhat by the Lackawanna River on three sides. Gossip, of course runs rampant, but people look out for one another.