of character, some soup of unkown stock...
As of now I hear my unknown neighbors
with CD or DVD at some 90 decibel,
the bass cranked to some amphetamine level...
It’s rarely ever quiet here in the so-called sticks.
This citified forest houses, maybe, 5 or 6 each block
(count the mail-boxes as you drive round
and while you’re at it, snoopy boomer,
take down the numbers on the Realtors’ signs).
Once-muffled traffic has grown louder yearly,
every new owner leveling a tree-towered lot,
selling the boles for pulpwood and burning
the stumps uprooted by the same machination
that fuels this yearning for Victorian lawns.
A level un-grassed plot, smooth as a cemetery,
fresh-raked earth, and within its periphery
a house plunked down, dumb as a tombstone
planted too soon in un-fertile ground––
such slack imagination cannot stifle my yawns...
I’ll be moving on soon, so have at it!
Snoopy boomer! Tear down the trees,
mow down the house, and gravel the drive!
Just as if no-one ever lived here while I was live...
By the way, make the driveway circular––
it’ll be easier for the EMT’s (or the coroner)
to snatch you up after another hard day
of digging up the creeping-charley, oxalis,
stinging nettle, curly-dock, wildwood violets
I left especially to retard your way!
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