|Suburbs at Night (M.A. Reilly, 2014)|
Conformity caught here, nobody catches it, Lawns groomed in prose, with hardly a stutter. Lloyd hits the ball, and Lorraine fetches it. Mom hangs the laundry, Fred, Jr., watches it, Shirts in the clichéd air, all aflutter. Conformity caught here, nobody catches it. A dog drops a bone, another dog snatches it. I dreamed of this life once, Now I shudder As Lloyd hits the ball and Lorraine fetches it. A doldrum of leaky roofs, a roofer who patches it, Lloyd prowls the streets, still clutching his putter. Conformity caught here, nobody catches it. The tediumed rake, the retiree who matches it, The fall air gone dead with the pure drone of motors While Lloyd hits the ball, and Lorraine just fetches it. The door is ajar, then somebody latches it. Through the hissing of barbecues poets mutter Of conformity caught here, where nobody catches it. Lloyd hits the ball. And damned Lorraine fetches it.