She sweeps heavy lashes
down towards the blacktop
as silence crosses the lawn.
Waving slowly,
a half-hearted wave
that says nothing more than
"I'll see you when I see you",
she returns to that awkward teenage stance,
hands in pockets, heart in mouth.

Mr. Young smiles as he passes by, knowing he'll swing back
in and hour or so,
and she'll still be standing there,
smooth and clueless.

Must we wait
until all children disappear
to recognize there are prowlers in the neighborhood?
Why do we televise
brain numbing melodrama
when kids are being snacthed and disposed?

Pencil-skirt littered driveways
taunt cigar-hipster parents
until their Kindle's explode.
Mascara covered van seats
bleed onto child-free driveways
and you ask "Why don't they play anymore?"

A unified government
with only two voices
take their sides of the street,
while the one's who've done nothing
dress like they're something,
and kill themselves while you sleep.

You'd hide those pills
if you knew where they ended up.

12/31/2010

Posted on 12/31/2010
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