27 Club

Anthony Raffin ’15

A dense wooded forest,

long since forgotten, becomes

a stomping ground for Suburbia.

Perfect little houses,

lined up neatly along the streets;

streets that are desolate

of cracks or potholes.

Green lawns,

far greener than nature

ever intended.

SUV’s parked in that immaculate

driveway;

somehow there just for show.

A maze of streets,

that seem to never end.

A nice, respected school,

only a bike ride away.

Filtered television,

only the Liberal side;

Newspapers report,

There is no fighting

Days start to repeat,

you can predict the next move.

Houses become cells,

the neighborhood,

a prison.

Trying to escape, but you can’t

Leave,

that perfect little house

with all it’s perfectly selected

So you sit

in the backyard,

at the picnic table you don’t remember

buying.

With the friends you don’t like;

with a final concise breath,

You start to enjoy it.

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