you live on the other side of the hill,
lost in cookie cutter American suburbia
where one ties a yellow ribbon on the mailbox
to locate the house you try to call home.
it doesn't feel like home to you.
the curve of the roads and multiple cul-de-sacs
confuse your mind which is already reeling
with your loss of the house which seemed not
to be enough, but was,
and as you wander down the silent streets
gazing at all the closed garages, their
nice cars put away for a good night's sleep,
curtains drawn, you wonder that there is
no apparent humanity here, only people locked
up inside cookie cutter houses.
I know tears are rolling down your cheeks.