In American Suburbia,
The more money people have,
The more miserable they look.
Clench-jawed, lips fused,
Eyes roving while clutching artisanal coffee,
Weighing the inhabitants by their gains,
With a look of disdain at this financial decay,
Coupled with a slight tremor of fear,
Of how it could slip away…
In American Suburbia,
The less money people have,
The more miserable they look.
Sunken cheeked, hollow-eyed,
Walking with head bowed, eyes to the ground,
Trying to remove themselves from sight,
Looking up every now and then,
To see what it is that they don’t have,
And wondering what might have been…
In American Suburbia,
I sat once with a friend,
Sipping beer at an outdoor table,
Watching this menagerie of gloom shuffle by,
And asked him where all the happy people were…
“I suppose they died a long time ago,” was his reply.