It’s nice to meet you
in the suburbs
in a softened miniature version
of our prosaic lives.
It’s nice to see you
embraced in a brown pied sweater,
to see
the suburban cozy yarns
hugging your desperate yearns.
You seem so self-contained that way.
It’s nice meeting you in the suburbs
like two losers
that didn’t even make it to the city
to get drunk.
It’s nice meeting you in the suburbs
almost boring enough
so I won’t
so so so much
look forward
to the next time.
It’s nice to meet you
in an almost neutral zone.
The only one that hugs anything
is this pied sweater of yours
protecting your round, drowsy belly.
In the suburbs tigers become yawning tabby cats.
We cling to the only barrier we have left,
the foggy suburban veil,
we never chose to remove,
the same way I won’t ever shave your russet beard
to reveal how bold your mouth can be,
the same way I’m not poking my fingers
into your brown surrounding wool
to pick a thread
and pull out
some kind of
core.