Panoramic suburbia.
Flecks of plastic snowmen,
reindeer slaves pulling sleighs for that white bearded hawker of cheap plastic toys made in china and other objects of nonfunctional disadvantage.
Those unfortunate inflatable snow globes, inside of which it's always a white christmas even if it's not.
It's not.
Barren blacktop spreads like tar accessorized by the occasional car sitting in wait for someone, its exhaust spitting out billowy smoke whose thickness recedes after only rising a few feet.
Trees of a bulimic thinness slacken and get shoved by relentless bitter winds asking me for a coat or at least a scarf to defend themselves with
but I don't have any extra.
"Sorry," I say and a group of teenagers walk passed, looking at me with knowing eyes, hoping that when they're older they don't stand on porches, apologizing to trees.
They will, though. They will.
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