The Hermitage of Nothing Much

Once, someone bought a suburb,
A large subdivision, that is,
Before anyone could hold

Any home with money down.
From the air, you couldn’t tell
How strange that neighborhood was,

Wouldn’t even guess, unless
You scrutinized streets for cars
And noticed that there were none.

Otherwise, it looked the same
As all the other looping
Necklaces, chains of fish eggs.

A gated community,
No one entered by mistake,
And the homes stayed locked and bare,

With enough security cameras
That cats from nearby houses
Could be tracked throughout the night

And any would-be squatters
Could be quickly reported
And swiftly escorted out.

Once a month, maintenance crews
Swept through the whole neighborhood
To keep it in pristine trim,

And the owner, sole haunter
And possessor of all keys,
Never slept there, but wandered

In at any hour to taste
The peculiar emptiness,
The ultimate achievement,

Sublime apotheosis
Of purest suburbia,
Hermitage of nothing much.