The Burbs

We exist in dimly lit suburban rooms

Antiques with minuet dust collection

Windows that reflect back the life within

Smatterings of push pinholes in walls

Testaments to the images of idols

Tacked to them over adolescence

Now a gallery of all the dreams we

once considered, mused over

then threw to the waste bin.


Somewhere in the closet

lay the bare bones of a forgotten instrument.

Somewhere in the closet

I carved our last name with safety scissors.

Sloughing off the ghosts of us in this hollowed space

Like scars speak novels on skin

The warping of this furniture tell our tales.

What caused bitter loneliness before

Now gives these monuments meaning.


Off to the thrift stores they’ll go

To be mulled over by the masses

And yet, how will they know

That you and I were crafted with the oak

from our bedposts and end tables

Unknowingly chipping away pieces of our history

in the suburbs that forged us.

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