More condos for my street.
Trees come down,
what used to be is trucked away.
Out my window,
I can see carpenters,
cement trucks, earth movers,
whatever it takes to erase more forest.
In a month or two,
there’s twelve new townhouses.
Now how long did it take
to grow that oak, that maple?
The raccoons, groundhogs leave.
Some to other pocket-handkerchief
stands of woodlands.
The rest to the mercy of the roads.
I have new neighbors now,
families, cars, dogs and lawn furniture.
All I was trying to escape
has followed me here.
From this new estate,
I hear a voice declare,
“This is all we ever dreamed of.”
Not even my nightmares can catch a break.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and The Coe Review.