between the concrete river & the park where the bums share a bottle wrapped in a brown paper sack,
there is a cul-de-sac of plastic houses holding hands & sharing manicured lawns wooden cars that don't even make any smoke drive down gray asphalt streets.
fathers that tell mothers they have jobs wear down street corners sharing beers with the bums, like they already are one.
all these paper families rubbing shoulders until everyone has paper cuts. going home to dinner around a table full of paper love.
suburbia is flimsy paper towns shining white smiling neighbors & shared lawns paper people slowly falling apart.
couples with their tongues down each other's throats, midnight in supermarket parking lots dribbling beer in the backseat they bought off the bums.
they say, I love you, I love you,I love you. until she leaves for a paper husband & he leaves for a paper wife.
now they live on two separate cul-de-sacs with the same cutout love, as the parents they despised.
& when they have kids one day they will tell them never kiss before driving, never befriend bums, or guzzle cheap beer in backseats, or on park swings. & never settle for a paper husband or a paper wife.
remembering the love that was flimsy, but never paper.
100,000 miles away from where they grew up & 3,000 miles away from each other 3 kids each & plastic houses rubbing shoulders & sharing lawns
living in a paper thin suberbia chafing under their paper love.