Suburban silence, sing to me
of dark green lawns and fireflies,
hushed rustling in the white oak tree
guarding the swings, the faded cries 
of squealing girls and impish boys 
now fast asleep, making no noise.

Lawn mowers and leaf blowers cool
in garages next to SUVs.
The windows of the Greenwood School
are dark as the deeps of far-off seas.
Parents argue, watch TV, fret,
have sex, perhaps a cigarette.

In these precincts good counts for less
than nice, honesty than success.
Neighbors conceal their offenses;
resentments stay behind fences.
Nice houses, lawns—and all keep shtum
about where the cash comes from.  

The city’s rumbling soundtrack’s pricked
by gunshots, laughter, shrieking sirens,  
by late buses, hookups, conflicts,
the city of the poor, the addicts,
hugged by its gated environs’
indifferent arms of stone and bricks.

A few lie anxious, wide awake,
worrying about the state of things.
In fear and trembling they quake, 
staring up at smooth white ceilings,
listening as their green suburb sings
in silence that’s inane, opaque.
                        

They said he was one who’d go far,
but he became unpopular
when all mouthed the official creed
and he politely disagreed.