Suburban alternatives

The dog chews the back of the cat’s neck and when she does, it’s like the cat is caught in some embarrassed state of sexual arousal. The chicken coop needs to be extended so I can park my tractor under it, so I can free up space in the garage to write or smoke cigars. We wonder over the falling leaves from the cottonwoods, the widow makers, that will get taken down as they build up the lots around us, and the sound of crunchy gravel on our street gets replaced with asphalt, when they force us to get off septic and tie-in to the city sewage line, for around $40,000 USD.

I let the grass go brown but around us, the sprinklers are going during the morning walk, at 6 AM. There’s the house with the working artist who painted his door blood red, and leaves a life-size skeleton on the bench, on the front porch. I didn’t think artists could survive out here, with the cul-de-sacs and the school buses.

The bus stop is bare of kids now, as they’re still sleeping in. I pass the laborers setting up at 7 AM with their orange sweatshirts and hoods, primping the landscape at the new development, homes starting in the low 700s. I go to work and talk about decision logic and trade-downs, how to show up as a leader. I’m not good conversation when I get home. This is the best I am all day, as the coffee is kicking on like a lawn sprinkler, and I can get some fresh air.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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