The Silence Of The Suburbs Poem by Phil Lucas

The silence of the suburbs,
ebony still.
Coolly gazing heaven
loosely fingers
the half moon,
and stars puff sleepily
into the shawl of the dark.

The last jet of nightfall
lumbers upwards,
grudgingly,
with 400 new adventurers
tightly dreaming
of what will be.

And there below
is fat Jim Ferry
rolling
from the rumble-mumble electric train.
“There’ll be a better tomorrow, ”
his sozzled heart grumbles,
and he loosens his tie
in anticipation
of what will never come.

The half moon is hazy now
and the stars yawn,
“it’s just another jet
in the clasping smoke of still.”
Fat Jim Ferry looks to the skies.
“Clouds, ”
he whispers,
alone.

The silence of the suburbs,
ebony still.