The Suburban Mould

That grass you're showing off
lies in long lines of light and dark
along the green,
snipped and shaped and fertilized
into an outdoor carpet
that requires special shoes with nubs
and carts with soft wheels.

Your bedrooms have closed doors and heavy drapes
and secret drawers,
suckers that have you lick the clothes off naked people,
and magazines full of ladies with heavy breasts called pendulous
lie in and on clean and modern furniture
while the bedskirt hides the shoes.

There were sparkles on the plastic flowers
and sparkles in your see-through plastic summer footwear
and sparkles in the stippled ceiling,
the ceiling to which I would never refer out loud,
because stipple was far too close to nipple,
and God knew what my thoughts were.

In those days, I was made to wear dresses on Sundays,
and although I pretended to be a co-conspirator,
they were too straight and clean,
and my nylons made me horny
when they bunched to one side in the car
on the way home from church.
I liked how wrong it was to want the painful stick
of my damp legs stuck to tan vinyl
in the Buick's hot back seat
and how the red impressions on my thighs
would burn all through Sunday dinner.

Come dear Lord and be our guest
was the prayer before consumption
in the days when asking for grace meant automatic receipt
and I didn't know that gravy was a violent reduction,
Jesus was the co-conspirator,
and I was to be an outdoor carpet with secret drawers
in the suburban mould.

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