The façade of community

The illusion works

better than orange,

sodium streetlights.

All I could ever wish for.

Heartfelt

and hearty.

Domestic bliss, a pedestal

alone in a crowd of views.

Sedate homes, well maintained, simple lives.

Proper and proportioned children,

husbands and wives.

To gardens, to front gates, my footfalls

encroach as an outsider; the sprawls,

dynasties, varnished

cars, smart flowers

warming suns, settling rains,

hopeful hours.

The façade hit me.

I saw orange bulbs

bent on lighting rooms.

These unavailable dreams

matter

then don’t matter,

as there is brokenness beneath

community surfaces.

Collecting, combining, my pieces.

Drifting off, my soul signs new leases.

To water, clean, more than refreshing,

as grains emerge from husks by threshing.

So, I mean something.

We all shatter.

Spirits can rise,

surfaces clatter.