Suburban Pastoral

Twilight folds over houses on our street;

its hazy gold is gilding our front lawns,

delineating asphalt and concrete

driveways with shadows. Evening is coming on,

quietly, like a second drink, the beers

men hold while rising from their plastic chairs

to stand above their sprinklers, and approve.

Soon the fireflies will rise in lucent droves—

for now, however, everything seems content

to settle into archetypal grooves:

the toddler's portraits chalked out on cement,

mothers in windows, finishing the dishes.

Chuck Connelly's cigarette has burned to ashes;

he talks politics to Roger in the drive.

"It's all someone can do just to survive,"

he says, and nods—both nod—and pops another

beer from the cooler. "No rain. Would you believe—"

says Chuck, checking the paper for the weather.

At least a man can keep his yard in shape.

Somewhere beyond this plotted cityscape

their sons drive back and forth in borrowed cars:

how small their city seems now, and how far

away they feel from last year, when they rode

their bikes to other neighborhoods, to score

a smoke or cop a feel in some girl's bed.

They tune the radio to this summer's song

and cruise into the yet-to-exhale lung

of August night. Nothing to do but this.

These are the times they'd never dream they'll miss—

the hour spent chasing a party long burned out,

graphic imagined intercourse with Denise.

This is all they can even think about,

and thankfully, since what good would it do

to choke on madeleines of temps perdu

when so much time is set aside for that?

Not that their fathers weaken with regret

as nighttime settles in—no, their wives

are on the phone, the cooler has Labatt

to spare; at nine the Giants play the Braves.

There may be something to romanticize

about their own first cars, the truths and lies

they told their friends about some summer fling,

but what good is it now, when anything

recalled is two parts true and one part false?

When no one can remember just who sang

that song that everybody loved? What else?

It doesn't come to mind. The sprinkler spits

in metronome; they're out of cigarettes.

Roger folds up his chair, calls it a day.

The stars come out in cosmic disarray,

and windows flash with television blues.

The husbands come to bed, nothing to say

but 'night . Two hours late—with some excuse—

their sons come home, too full of songs and girls

to notice dew perfect its muted pearls

or countless crickets singing for a mate.