Out
Paradise
Kay Lamb
I settle my feathers into the fine cracks
of the bark from the apple tree
on the corner of Farran Drive.
My eyes reflect the fluorescent glow
of Mrs. Hugh’s porch light
that she leaves on for her husband
who never made it home.
I watch the kids who line the sidewalks
of paradise–
moths to a light–
screaming,
bursting at the seams.
They run their voices hoarse
telling passers-by that they are different.
The people who reside here
peer down, oblivious
to their own neglect,
and wonder why their blue bags
sit untouched at the end of their driveway.
Who are your garbage men?
Who are your grandchildren?
Tell me a story
about a community dissolved
into rows of houses.
