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In this suburb, rush hour lures the Lucky ones out in smoky cars and Tributaries trickling to the bus stop Past curtains drawn to hide a still-dark bedroom From day's bright disapproving glare. Inside, effort seems better spent On blocking out the sounds, on just Going back to sleep. Noon wanders by lethargically Through familiar streets, stumbling on Familiar potholes. Look closely at a house: You don't see him there at first, Turning a footy in his hands. And then You notice something odd—he's not at work. Later he retreats as the commuters return, Counting the hours they've worked. In this suburb, Nobody looks forward to the weekend. Amid lengthening shadows children laugh, Busy about their games of make believe. But even children seem to understand that In this suburb, even imagination fades And they are standing in the dilapidated gardens Of the unemployed. |