I wrote this poem as I was thinking about the asshole down the street who called the city on us because he didn’t like how our yard looked. This happened a couple of years ago but every single time I see him, I want to spit at his car.
Upper Middle Class Suburbia Infected
In a perfectly boring, cookie cutter
upper middle class neighborhood, filled with
manicured lawns, manicured wives and spanking new SUV’s,
we are like infected sores.
We ooze our perfectly placed facade
of upper middle class white trash puss
down our driveway and into the street.
Right in the middle of the neighborhood.
On his way home,
where dinner and his wife sit ready and waiting,
He turns up his nose and swerves his sedan
to avoid getting touched and dirty
by the neighborhoods infection.
He gags a little into his white hanky.
Shaking his cuffed fist
through the slightly tinted window
in disgust and exasperation
he pulls into his own perfectly tarred driveway.
Avoiding his fat wife’s kiss
and shushing her attack of
“how was your day”,
he calls the city.
He needs to reports the dump
that is piling up in the middle
of their perfectly kept
upper middle class suburbia.
While my children scream in our backyard,
loudly, as the jump, dive and splash
in the American Dream Pool.
Noise. Chaos. Spread and echo
off the water.
Disrupting the quiet dinnertime peace
of the boring upper middle class
Giving more strength and resolve
in his voice that demands
the city to clean the trash.
Immediately, if not sooner.
Ruining his appetite for his wife
and the homemade chicken pot pie.