I wake up in the morning
Make coffee, roll a stick
Sit down
My spot
Well, mine as much as that is where my wife as assigned me
Gazing, front door open, through the glass storm door
Staring right into the back sides of other folks’ lives
Folks I don’t know
Folks don’t know me
Laying before me a suburban encampment of the struggling American middle class
Just the same
My neighbors to the rear receive the same upskirt view of American life
Setting fire to my stick, inhaling to forever
Exhaling, blowing the steam off my cup
All the dwellings visibly homogenous
Mostly
Certainly there are different shades and colors of brick and vinyl
Like the soul of those who reside within
Diverse in build and aesthetic are anatomically the same
Particularly with the view of bent over backsides
Like the back doors of all America
And still, the same each soul housed with in the diverse anatomically the same temples
Are each to themselves unique expressions of the individual soul
Not in some abstract fantastic way
Of Bohiemians gathered in mores.
Rants and diatribes of dirty dishes and who’s cutting the lawn
Fire lit nights and conversations with the stars
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