The neighborhood is silent
against the raucous jeers
of abounding crowds.
Traffic rushes statically
on highways not far from here.
The wind rhapsodizes dreamily,
lulling the silent, sleeping street.
But the neighbors are watching,
I’m sure, as I carve an apple,
(its red skin sweating in the
I never speak to my neighbors.
We never barbecue, either.
We remain indoors, in our
closed circuit environments,
in our creature comfort habitats,
in our dens of solidarity.
The land has changed:
preference of security leaves
these remains, these dormant
people, silent and secluded
from extemporaneous movement.
Wheels on upturned bikes spin
like reels of family-time past
and the basketball, the children’s
games are completely forgotten.
The children are gone, locked behind
barred doors, or perhaps in their
basements, slaves to their senses:
eyes and tongue.
The neighbors are watching though.
I am sure as I smoke a cigarette
and scream a verse or two that they
huddle quietly, waiting to break free.
“The Neighborhood is Silent” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.