Suburbia

the air smells warmer than it ought to, this far into autumn
the sun, ascendant, glares from a robin's-egg blue sky
washing flutters, helpless, in the light breeze.

out on the street, retirees chat over garden fences;
a woman in torn jeans pushes a pram, while a shift worker, newly home,
parks a car with tired eyes.

walking the dog, we pass
late-blooming roses, Tudor-like, red and white
a brace of bottlebrush, white spiky jasmine
and a ginger cat, washing his face contemplatively on the sun-dappled pavement.

a bedroom suburb, this; blanketed, in daytime, with domesticity
a land of preschool children and new parents, sick-leave workers and the elderly
the occasional home-based worker, cocooned behind their screen

and dogs, oh the dogs
sleeping, sniffing, yowling loneliness to the impassive doorways

in the clean slate of the sky, a small plane writes
FL Hearts GF For Ever
white ink, trailing its edges into heaven
we watch as the wind takes it away

the crows on the powerlines caw as they divide the spoils
of a spilled garbage bin.

cradled in the palm of midday, the houses
lie watchful, eyes forward, waiting for nightfall and the scrape of keys.

- Kathy, 9/5/13