Cul-de-sac

Survival of the fittest theories rambled through your mind

when you played those games of street hockey

for the park was hard to find.

But though the evening’s growing dark

and the headlights soon will glow,

to you it’s sooner the summer would end

and it would begin to snow—

‘cause you’re spiteful that you’re living

on a bend where few would go,

so you’ll play on in the darkness

if just to keep the game alive.

There treehouse cults play card games

‘til the end of every day

as noontime gardens wilt and grubs

pick off the whole display.

A group of swimmers pass on by

bound to join their friends,

but you know they won’t be joining you

‘cause you’re still living on these bends.

See all refugees from the upstreet heat

fly down to where the curb ends,

to where no one’s denied passage for

there’s few who get out live.

But you could keep your front yard clipped

and let your jungle out back grow,

where we used to go exploring

just to see how far it'd go.

Who would've known the border

of what you called the "boondocks"—

your tool shed smelling rusty

near the bed of drainage rocks.

I remember once going back there

and opening your yard's toy box,

and inside with the balls and blocks

was a big ol' swarming hive!

But in the home where Jay would work away

the days to get her high,

she let us go to Game Boys when

our big mouths just ran dry.

And we were nests upon those limbs

while she was out there picking,

so our broken shells were all she found 

when she'd round up those still kicking.

See some were given direction

while others missed their turn—

Some were left to go in circles when

they hid out on a drive.

Now winter brings the plow truck’s gloom

and howling ugliness

that in the early morning hours comes

to scrape up all the rest.

They always skip your cul-de-sac

for the favor of the row,

making your street side segregated

from the world by a wall of snow!

And they leave poor Leon out there

numb to shovel away the load,

so this privilege of the cul-de-sac

makes living there a dive.

But fireworks are sometimes shot

down in these dead end parts,

and without a car or bike to trespass

or any killjoy bleeding hearts.

And though left out and vacated

like chalk on wet concrete,

you know that where you came from

you always got the front row seat.

And though the highway keeps it noisy

you never faced the street—

girl being the envy of the neighborhood

is a privilege you’ll survive.

NEXT

--Poems from the Sprawl