By
John Grey
WELCOME TO SUBURBIA
tree stressed out of all equilibrium
dies from the roots up
caterpillar, moth, parasites,
chainsaws all around,
the rush of soil to false freedom
house on the hill above,
road through its valley,
truck fumes, home fires…
all manner of exhaustion
it’s Shady Acres now
but buds won’t buy into it
suburban shade
never was its niche
so it’s out with the old,
in with the new growth
the softest option
sprouts picture-postcard feral
the firmest flesh,
a soft, sad, shadowy dream
ALL THESE GIVEAWAYS
Her coming death
she leaves to the rehearsing mourners,
the ones dribbling at her bedside.
“You can have the crystal clock,”
she says to a weeping daughter.
“It hasn’t worked in years.”
“And the souvenir Eiffel Tower is yours,”
she adds, handing it to her balding son
like it’s the Oscar for being the only
balding son in the room.
It’s more like an auction
than lung cancer
and the buyers have been bidding
all their lives.
For her sister, a belligerent cough.
Her brother gets the photograph
of all of them,
the one where he flaunts
a scribbled-in moustache.
Ah, if only her mother were alive.
No one else is worthy
of her smoking habit
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