The dVerse prompt today is to write a suburb poem. Mine rambles like the Number 11 as it wends its way very slowly from the station to the shopping complex in Bègles.
Here it’s not like in the films,
no tree-lined avenues and big silent cars.
Here are concrete blocks, layered like cakes
or cruise ships, without the glamour
or the icing.
Here are dogs and kids without homes
and homes without kids
Here the grass is mud,
and the buses pass full of tired people,
and there’s always a group of kids
with their music too loud
and their feet on the seats.
Further out are the streets,
neat and clean,
where the trees in the gardens
come from a catalogue.
No buses come here,
because the old folk are frightened
of the people who use public transport.
They keep in their cars,
speak to no one.
They have cats,
but no dogs.
Dogs bark and they crap on the pavements.
Night in the suburbs is frightening.
I don’t know which is worse,
the fires in litter bins and the dealers,
or the silence of old jaws clamped down on their words,
watching their assets climb
and the years tick by.