Suburban Smile

By Christina Friedrichsen


I live in the land of crescents,

not moons,

cul de sacs

all grey and smooth




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.




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