suburban doldrums

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artifacts of memories
clay pots that once held flowers
so little sun to grow
scars the only lasting souvenirs
it’s more spacious here
but sirens are too prevalent
from the doors of perception
to the walls of persuasion
everybody giving up
until no one is happy
each day the black dogs bay
to their jowls hurled
fistfuls of pills,
bottles green and brown,
cartons of ash
like a terrible infant
on the wrong side of town
still pauses to stare the setting sun
over fence through neighboring trees
succumbing now numb enough
the backdoorstep of suburban death

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