In The Suburbs by Jan Sand

hese streets are now well walked.
I know their spotted concrete patches,
Lightning cracks, tufts of wayward sprouting weeds,
Broken trees with jagged boughs, blackboned fingers
Shielding curtained windowed walls,
Corridors of cheesebox houses neatly laid
On squares of grass deployed like plastic rug.
Nets of sparrows fling across the open spaces.
A mower chews and spits a useless crop.
Preferable to inner city honeycomb,
But eaten by the same tessellation.
How does one escape this labyrinth?
The string is broken, the crumbs are all consumed.
I spiral inwards to the beast.


Ovi magazine

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