Revolt

No suburban poverty’s picturesque
Next to its rural and urban cousins—

No vibrant street life, street music, street art,
No melancholy fields or scruffy woods.

To be poor in suburbia is like
Being a cockroach in a white bathroom.

You’re doomed. You can maybe hide for a while,
Live off the little scruggly bits of waste,

Be careful about when you move about,
Scramble like hell back under shadowed shelves,

But you’re going to end up flipped on your back,
Skinny legs twitching feebly, helplessly,

Or something massive’s going to stomp you flat.
Until then, when the lights are off, you crawl

Into the stacked TP and paper towels
Under the sink, where you record your life

In tiny specks on cottony white sheets
To horrify, if discovered, at least.