I’m on the curb watching
the swallows dive and dart through
the cul-de-sac, a suburban legend:
This is where dreams die.
Bag it up, and gruff men
will come whisk it away, sanitary,
in the heat of the day
unseen but for a slight shift
of a lace curtain, a dusty shroud
for a shadowed picture window.
March 23, 2012