the suburbs on sunday

The car that circles the block
is not a car I know
and so I wonder who it is
driving so methodically,
behind dark glass

Maybe she’s lost, on her way to Bunco
and can’t see the house numbers
because they are a hideous tan color
hidden in plain sight,
looking exactly the same

Maybe he’s a thief, cruising our street
looking to take bicycles and laptops
and stuff them in the spacious trunk
of a black Lexus,
stolen just this morning

Maybe she’s looking for a house to buy
with plenty of sunlight
that will maybe offer solace and renewal
after the divorce,
that has lasted too long

I guess my money’s on a lost guy
searching for a friend’s house
an hour too close to kick-off
smelling his six-layer dip go to rot,
next to him in the passenger’s seat

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