Suburgatory Revised

They come and go, the neighbors,
to and from their vinyl domains
each evening while I sit
and write my poems on the porch,
watching them over my papers.
A neighbor to the left is plenty sociable,
saying hello as we pass in our driveways
and greeting my dogs kindly if they trespass
our boundary to pee on his tree.
My house is on the tip of our suburban land,
windows facing the cookie-cutter properties
leaving all to view.
Strange moments have occurred in this place;
such as the back door popping suddenly
once evening a few weeks ago,
leaving ears ringing, dogs howling.
What was that? It sounded like a gunshot!
Quickly from one room to the next,
we peek around the burgundy curtain
knowing it came from there, his house.
It is the only sound we hear.
Should we go see if they need help?
Six squad cars, two fire trucks, and
one ambulance fill the cul-de-sac,
lights circulating and flashing.
Assuming it was a fight with his daughter
or wife gone very array, we watch for a body bag
but none emerges.

This suburban life is stable,
one day not too vastly different than the one before.
The neighbors smile and wave
as they come and go.