Suburgatory

They come and go, the neighbors,
to and from their vinyl domains
each morning while I sit
and write my poems on the porch,
watching them over my papers.
The family directly across the street
has a small son, Hayden, with lots of blonde
curly hair whom they adore,
deservedly so.
To the left lives an old State Trooper
and his wife. They keep to themselves
mostly but will lend a blender if needed.
I’ve heard them quarreling gently
about shaving his beard from time to time
as they come and go, probably to church.
Four navy men, each with a tiny
tricked-out car live two houses down
and they completely ignore the stop sign
each time, barely slowing down
for the right turn.
A polite male couple who wave
as they pass reside at exactly a
forty-five degree angle from me.
Clean-shaven and always well-dressed,
I hear them training their black lab
in the evenings, clapping when he does well.
My last neighbor is slightly more sociable
saying hello as we pass in our driveways
and greeting my dogs kindly if they trespass
to pee on her tree. This suburban life is stable,
one day not to vastly different than the one before.