A July Evening in the Suburbs

The quiet of this torrid summer evening isn't
Total. I hear children at a swimming pool,
And strains of cliched “classic” rock
Accompanying meat of some sort sizzling
On a propane grill. I hear, here and there,
These burghers gently curse their cushy jobs,
Celebrities receive some mention, muted kudos
For the imbecile clowns made president. It all
Seems rather fin de siecle, for a nation, for a race,
As clouds grow thicker. Rain will come, and what
We've cherished will be washed away toward
Those unlike us, and torrid evenings in the future
May not feature kids in pools or slabs of protein
On the grill. I won't tell them their day is passing,
But it clearly is.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 77 times
Written on 2019-07-22 at 01:52

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