30/365, 11/30 Each Front Porch

This is a neighborhood in name only.
Curtains perpetually drawn,
porch lights out,
these homes stand in uncomfortable rows
facing each other, bleary-eyed,
swaying like pre-teen wallflowers
hoping not to be asked to dance.

Unlined streets that need no sidewalks
weave an unhappy grid
They are not unfriendly here
Satisfied by doing their civic duty
they keep their lawns mowed
and their eyes to themselves.

The children know better than to play outdoors.
They earn passing grades,
and their teachers still forget their names in June
Destined to live here forever,
they keep their dreams to themselves.

There is no gossip across picket fences,
only casual waves and reluctant nods of the head.
The news, bland as Wednesday dinner,
is worthy of mention but little more.

There are hints of a history in the architecture
in the passing thoughts of great grandparents,
tongues loosened ans spry in their golden years.

Their golden years are almost up,
and what a let-down they were.

Their children shush their memories.



*Writing prompt (Mckibbens): Ghost 1st line - "Each front porch holds a chair where no one sits."