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We know sprawling lake views
are your preference,
bridges arching over a still sheet of cerulean,
gazing out of wall-sized sixth floor windows
at the high beams of the cars driving across
like a bright string of Christmas lights,

but we think you’ll find this
acceptable, this look out across
the grainy brown of suburban rooftops,
out towards the sky where trees used to tower
until they were cut down
to make room for hundreds more rooftops.

We know waking in the morning
to tousled hair and soft low breaths
is your preference,
after falling asleep to piano
ballads or the sound of a
typewriter click-clacking frantically
from across the room,

but we think you’ll find this
acceptable, this waking to
screams of children and the low growl
of various lawn mowers,
a suburban symphony in its first movement,
slowly crescendoing
as emptiness begins
clanging on its
great guttural timpani.