Suburban Spiritual

Someone plays “Amazing Grace”
On a xylophone.
Reverbs from the bombings
Add percussion.

Unexpected heat drives many indoors,
Even the crazy flying twin garage flags.
Shadows hidden in showers
Become familiar ghosts.

I avoid repairs involving
Electricity and water.
“Good news!” I call out to neighbors
And wait for their cringe.

Many are allergic to celebration
Despite cracking half-smiles
And fake joy noddings.
Husbands pass weight on to wives.

Kids blast each other
With various calibers of water.
The young beg parents
For electric bikes and pizza.

I am sans heirs, an ovened man
Crackling in my own hot fat.
Boomers perk with mail truck rumbles
And red-light flashings.

Most hope the jerk on the corner
Croaks before morning coffee.
Elders learn hate in drip-drip fashion
Enduring waves of barking,

Bouncing balls and chainsaws.
Stroller wheels grind cement and asphalt.
A blower groans scattering cut grass.
Women without men

Get even with cats and dogs.
The widow next door
Strings barista lights on her patio cover
For parties that will never come.

Kirby Michael Wright lives beside the racetrack in San Diego with his wife Darcy and a cat named Gatsby.

Image: BrendelSignature at the English-language Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons