Suburban Wars

That morning I walked outside

To a puff in the air, by the window on the back deck

A simple, white puff – flour-

That hinted of the first volley-

A well-made apple pie.

I countered in the evening with

A full roast dinner and vegs.

The gravy, poured high and clear,

Framed in the yellow-lit window,

Said: ‘Come at me, bro.’

The fresh-trimmed bush and blushing petals

Of an award-winning garden punched in my guts

But I hung my new framed print in the lounge and

Invited the neighbours round

To see – and some brunch.

The satellite came next, for them,

And the huge roundness of it fell

On me like an H-bomb.

They listened to their films too loud,

And every room had HD sound.

I called up a guy and ordered

Two mega-loads of solar-panels.

Angled just right,

to twinkle in the windows

Against closed lids and gritted jowls

But was thwarted in kind by the blinding blast

Of a plate-sized flood-light,

Motion sensors turned on high

To light my bedroom into day,

Every time I turn to hide.

The smoke from a barbie-

The salt on the garden-

The accidental scratch

On a brand-new Holden.

Suburban wars with missiles,

Pointed and armed, behind

The casual invite to “Just pop in,

and see the game on the big screen,

you mind?”

After he left, and she went bitter,

They left behind a suspense

The size of a house, empty,

In the middle of a white picket fence.

But I sharpened my knives and

Pulled out the china.

Because the sign says ‘sold’ and

Today there’s a truck,

And the wife said “well met”

But meant:

“I’ve an uzi in the shed.”


Danielle K. Day


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