Suburban Pastoral

Maybe there could have been

another life that led us here,

where we ended up:

mapless, dehydrated, telling stories

about cruelty to insects, about

setting little fires—tiny gods

with magnifying glasses. We could

have moved into another house,

maybe the one next door

with the rats, or the other side

with the dandelion problem.

French doors instead of sliding glass.

We got the ants, the picture window.

Plan A, berber, gazebo. Afternoons

where every moment slid down

silently into the moment before:

piling up like cigarette ends,

merit badges, a single summer

of sawdust and parch. Maybe another

life like that, one where it wouldn’t matter

how many fires, how long we ran the taps.