houses
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An old house upon the hill
Sitting quietly, sitting still
Dusty everywhere with dirty windows cracked
Broken down shelves and old books stacked
Moth-eaten rugs and rotted boards
On that one side of paradise
In the Tropic of Cancer
Along past warehouses and water towers
Their backs turned squarely
To the train that bumps and glides on the tracks
My head leaning against the window
Where has the privacy gone?
From homes separated by a large canvas
Of green grass and long fences
Now walls sit not a feet from walls
Where voices can clearly be heard
And privacy has dissipated into the
I was a child (more than I am now) when my grandmother shared with me the world.
She’d get mail, like all adults tend to, and leave the blank envelopes for weekends.
I tell the time by trees.
I tell the time in threes.
Three by threes from trees.
Three by three by three.
Time in trees to three by threes.
We pass our time in trees.
We pass our time in threes.
Over such a vast expanse of suburban sprawl
a warm aura of sunset orange radiates from each roof,
Houses,
just actors in the scene of their surroundings,
A distant city as the backdrop.
