In the Suburbs You Can Have a Perfect Life
The dog sniffs a fire hydrant.
The son shoots baskets until dark.
The grass is sharply edged along the sidewalk.
It takes only a moment for the man
to forget he is father, husband,
for his wife to become stone.
He clenches his fist, brings back his arm,
as though winding up for a pitch.
The driveway is swept clean.
Moths dart around the porch light.
Dirt spills from the planter.
The son runs away.
The sky fractures.
Fruit hangs low on the plum tree.