Somewhere In Suburbia

A yellow bike with fading paint
and only one peg left of what was four,
sits on its handle bars and seat
with one wheel still just barely spinning
at the bottom of an empty pool
and a lawn mower starts up elsewhere
in the distance.

Her perfume is like gasoline
and bug spray and still my friends
spend their whole day
convincing her to take
a little walk with them.

The rattle of a spray paint can
and feeling of the metal
in my hand as I write fuck this
on a plastic shed a bit too far out
for anyone to see.

The rain here falls diagonally
in perfect lines that cover up
the distance, and all the stoplights
start to rage around like so many
human bodies at the show tonight.

An old man jumps the staircase
on his skateboard but he crashes on
the pavement hard, and everyone
is too afraid to see if he is able to
stand up again.

The older brother says he’s gotta go,
and fires up his ancient car,
and leaves the younger one just
standing in the driveway
where his shoes melt on the
burning stone beneath him.