Suburban lawns concealing.
Manicured Augustine obscuring.
There is a sound murmuring.
Underneath it.
Beetles and worms and nocturnal beings,
Lurking beneath its calm surface.
The image serves to conceal what we know to be true,
But cannot accept.
The uproar becomes louder.
The rose blossoms disturbed.
The paint begins to crack.
The window is shattered.
There is a white picket fence overgrown by vines.
And no one to cut them back.
At night you can’t find your way home.
This is the same place.
But it is very different.
The gregarious locust has returned.
It will not soon leave us, and now we are trapped.
Denial is our downfall.
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