Midnight Ramble

This is the middle class, lower. The tree in the yard.

Bushes in front of the house. Flowers in the yard. Lawn

mowers growling. Dogs barking. Lots of dogs. Every-

body has one, for safety, and they keep them locked up

in their yards where they bark and bark behind their

fences because no one ever takes them for a walk. Ice

cream men. Lawn chairs. And beer and beer bellies and

white paint on trim and brick and a hose at the side of

the house. Squares, everything squares. Sidewalks and

lawns and porches and houses and brains. TV sets. Gar-

age sales and telephone poles. Kids sell kool-aid in sum-

mer, shovel snow in winter. Till they’re old enough to

smoke and drink and raise hell. They get a couple years

of that, then it’s factory time. Always one lawn mower

going. Because everyone on this street works in a fac-

tory and they’re all on different shifts. Maybe they

communicate through their lawns, waking me here in

the dark, damp basement. The young guys in the fac-

tory say they’re not going to work there the rest of

their lives. Just ‘temporary.’ The old guys laugh at that.

They say Temporary my ass.

:: Jim Daniels, Punching Out