SONG OF SUBURBIA by Michael Lynch

O sock drawers of paunchy, square-fingered mowers, monochromatic sedan drivers!

     May you be spiked forever with rogue golf tees, the ubiquitous Playboy

          secreted always in your depths.


O cut-glass decanters of the wet bar! O filament light sculpture!

     O deep blue, wall-to-wall misery smooth as the skin of the inner thigh—

          let no decorator revise you.


O fainting couch, green glow of banker's lamp, O Reader's

     Digest Condensed Books tawdry in your gilt spines! O intendance of oak

          paneling, of chenille swag and fleur-de-lis!


O furbished stereo console! O high fidelity! O Whipped

     Cream and Other Delights! O Jump Up Calypso! O On The Street

          Where You Live! O My


Fair Lady still jacketed and unmolested! Endure beneath the sunburst

     clock and the swirled plaster of the ceiling spangled

          with flecks of light!

O aquamarine coin of wading pool! O corrugated carport overhang!

     May you share eternally those trellises of summer afternoons

          drowsy with pink blooms.

And O split-level entryway, wrought-iron balustrade—glazed bonecage of the landing!

     O soft, skylit corridors and childhoods murdered in each room

          remain, remain!

Remain unchanged as the dioramas forgotten in library storerooms, pristine,

     delicate as embryos, dazzling as miniature scenes jewelled

          into enamel eggs.

appeared in White Whale Review

Photo by Bill Owens