I was raised in a suburb
and I vowed never. Ever.
To go back but growing up
means growing gentle, and now
after a party I am slipping
out the door down a hill past
lit windows, people changing
like channels on a row of televisions.
Where is my car?
Flick.
Silently an old couple plays cards.
Flick.
I hear kids in a bathtub:
. . . "My crocodile!"
. . . (Splash.)
Flick.
Voices from a kitchen:
. . . "I always hope my lilies
. . . will bloom on my birthday
. . . and of course they never do."
I thought I left my car here. No.
Here. No. I am distracted, surfing
a thousand windows --
From a screen porch:
. . . "Chardonnay!"
. . . "Hooray!"
Flick.
Drawn curtains: silhouettes dance
slowly sensuously
I can't hear the music but -- oh my!
From tonight perhaps springs
the new soul
of a suburban baby.
Flick.
A garage opens flooding light;
a motorcycle erupts.
I trip
where a root lifts the sidewalk,
fall to my knees
skinning the heel of my hand,
look up and see Cassiopeia
a quarter moon, a jet plane
through electric wires
and a crackling sound up a utility pole
sparks
in a transformer.
I am transformed
lost in suburbia
alone
without landmarks, passing
endless
little plots.
8/13/83
© Copyright 1983 and 1999 by Joe CottonwoodNext: Like a Moody God