Suburbia

Bedrock, domed and crude,
Meets grey matter with a slap.
Overwhelmed by solidity,
Even a plague of blisters could not
Weep, or be coaxed from their
Bubble wrap sanctums.

It assaults veneer, smooth
Save for the feeble indentations
Of chirographic ghosts. Hopes,
Expressed by tiny, grasping hands,
Lie imprisoned in dead terrain
Like flies entangled in a spider’s web.

The residents of Urban Fabric’s
Birdlime surface stand
Eye to bough with the alders,
Existing as facsimiles. Their fleshy
Roots burrow deep beneath concrete,
Oblivious of their choking quality.

Here lives a race bred beneath the glare
Of hydroponic street-lights, their
Blanched mouths gulping fish-like
Upon ivory spoons. Clownish
And certain, carved feet tread this
Road of asphalt until the stuttering of time.