Suburbs by Neil Fawcett

Across leafy roads
stillness spreads.
As front doors close
on private dreads.
and nice cars doze
on block paved beds,
by manicured lawns
and flower storms.

There’s a shadow in the sun.

On the kitchen top
black granite shines.
The cleaner stops
to check a crime.
Greasy spots
of children’s grime.
The cleaner
loaths the leaner.

There’s a shadow in the sun.

Leylandii  rise
above the fence
to shield their eyes
a deft defence
from neighbour spies
and difference
of colour, codes
and family roles.

There’s a shadow in the sun.

On a windless day
from front porch hooks,
baskets sway
but no-one looks
at the crumbling clay
of foundations fucked
by water that wreaks
of sewage leaks.

There’s a shadow in the sun.

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