SUBURBIA ON SUNDAY MORNING

At the six bedroom house high on a hill,
a child is being beaten behind closed doors.

Gusts of wind blow down sunlit silent streets.
Tweeting parakeets warm themselves in a nest
on an overhead transom. Nobody is outside.
A lone driver zooms by. Loneliness is in the air.

A faded American flag flaps in the wind over a cement dog
with a green hat, and a basket of Shamrocks in his mouth.
St Patrick’s Day has come and gone, yet a four-leaf clover
still brightens the front door. Behind closed doors,
a battered cop’s wife pours boiling water on him while he sleeps.

A house with a crèche displayed for Christmas
lingers under a dangling necklace of unlit lights.
A withered wreath and a plastic plaque “Welcome” sign
with artificial flowers hangs on a door with peeling paint.
An old Chevy with a shattered headlight and flat tires
sags in the driveway. Behind closed doors, a teen,
sworn to secrecy, is molested by her step-father.

An eyesore of a house with a soulless ambiance,
has tumbling down drainpipes and a drooping satellite dish.
A Carerra Porsche nestles in a carport behind overflowing garbage cans
filled with stinking Corona cans of beer. Behind closed doors,
a girlfriend does an orgasmic dance for her besotted boyfriend.

A black jockey painted white holds a welcoming lantern light
in front of a blue and white handicapped parking spot.
A wooden ramp leads across a manicured lawn to the front porch.
A “Veterans For Peace” sign shines from a dormer window.
A stoned paraplegic vet works to stop all wars behind closed doors.

A Love And Truth Korean Van sits in front of a building
with a banner saying: “Touch Church Christian Community:
Benvenido A Orar.” Behind closed doors, the pastor has his way
with a parishioner’s wife.

Only priests and therapists, sworn to silence,
know what goes on behind closed doors.