SUBURBAN AGRICULTURE

Mentholated ashes from my cigarette fall closely to the coffee cup saturated with flavorsome raspberry chemicals. It’s another of the same day when houseplants in the safety of the screened-in porch shriek for attention but you sit on the dirt-encrusted chair oblivious to their anguish. The neighbor, she meticulously waters the backyard lawn at sunset soon to be disturbed by her exasperated husband with the silencer and the rusted shovel. She, too, will return to the earth changing hues within a scarlet stream, first, a pale tone followed by chlorophyll green. Weeks later, I watch the swaying emerald phosphorus when the moonlight fruitlessly attempts to disclose her concealed, subterranean presence. The contiguous neighbors, unhinged, bored from the realm of reality and eager to break from the overwhelming daily routines, linger in silence relishing their iced herbal teas naked except for their gas masks by the pool anticipating the “for sale” sign to be removed from the front of the vacant, suburban necropolis with the subdued green meadow.

 

 

© March 2018 Douglas Lynn

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