their immaculate lawn,
well-rounded shrubs and plushy red geraniums.
their fantastically spotless vehicles; nothing extravagant but maintained to the utmost level of
because they, they do not burn their dinners for the rest of the neighborhood to smell.
they do not renovate their bedrooms to leave construction tracks as eyesores as what is inside is coming out what is outside coming in for something different,
they do not have the darkness of silent, cloaking nights ebbing
out their windowsills, encroaching to the street. they do not spill oil on the driveway. they do not yell to the stars when the world falls down into the pit of their stomach.
kneeling to the earth,
take out the trash methodical and silent but for the rolling plastic on gravel.
their leaves tinge in the sunsets, glowing, haloed and angelic.
the cement ditch between us cries an ocean.