And Down an Empty, Short Drive

The suburbs are uncanny,
Beyond any wilderness,
City, or shuttered village,
Mapped or imaginary.

You can tell stories in them
And about them. They’re bedroom
Communities, after all,
And nothing makes for stories

Like people coming to bed.
But there’s something about them
That cold-shoulders narrative,
Turns away, and cuts it dead.

The story of the suburbs
Backs out of a packed garage.