By Christina Friedrichsen

I live in the land of crescents,

not moons,

cul de sacs

all grey and smooth

and

litterless.

Houses polite and clean

like wedding invitations

in letterpress,

where neighbours wave

all Stepford-like.

Do they smell like apple pie?

Where is the crazy-ass

neighbour with fifteen cats and no satellite?

The one with bourbon on her breath

at 8 a.m.

Where is the mad man?

Moonshine in his pockets

and moon glow on his page.

Hiding under

a suburban smile.

A soft suburban grin.