Outside in my front yard I can see
a tree made of clothes pins looking back
at me.

Down the street stands the
confession booth, I see Mrs. Howard tumbling
out of it screaming random drunken obscenities at
the priest.

On Oakwood street if you put
your ear to the Andersons door
you might hear young Julie's screams for help.

There's a little house on the corner of
Mayberry where you can see a
statue of a random person who did something
great, and beside it the neighborhood kids smoking.

Behind the scrap yard you can listen to
the cops talking of all the teenage girls
who are getting pretty while they drink their coffee.

In the Smith's backyard at night
you can see a boy named Brandon peeking his head
out of Laura Smith's room and climbing
down the rose tressel.

Looking out of my window I can see my neighbor
mowing their lawn, and upstairs I see their daughter Lily
heaving over the toilet, clutching a blue strip.

If you walk four blocks west you can
see all the tourists pouring in from the summer
heat.

Who's to say that some things won't ever change.