Navy Housing
Navy Housing
On Jones Street every house is painted white,
each door is white, and every yard adheres
to certain rules: the grass at ankle-height,
an apple blossom tree bent toward the sun,
a single bush trimmed squat and round and so
symmetrically it seems manmade. No one
can deviate from others in the row.
How easily I lose myself out here.
Even the dog can barely sniff his way
back from the park. Was it a left we took?
A right? Perhaps it’s safer just to stay
indoors than go off course again. Oh, look—
another flag, another garden gnome,
another sign proclaiming Home, Sweet Home.
Comments:
Suburbia always gets a bad rap, probably out of ordinary snobbism. The dog walks away with this poem.
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