the only time i really like suburbia is at night,
when everyone and everything is still.
the kids are in their beds,
their handlers are at rest,
the drunks are in their heads,
crashing down with the wind.
me, i’m leaning out my window,
alternating sip of wine with puff of square,
my mind spinning and my eyes wide,
contemplating with a pen in my pocket
and my right hand at my side.
pages burn and scatter,
fingers turn and pitter-patter,
the keys will eventually fall,
and the screen will fill,
small indentations, growing impatience,
i can never fill them all.
the leaves begin to part
from the roots in which they start,
and i’m still here, dreaming.
Probably written after midnight.