Suburbia

A modest soup of flora and concrete, treetops and powerlines.

Autumn drops in, bringing with it a generous buffet of crunchy leaf endorphins. Step! Step! Freshly fertilized lawns rudely interrupt the scent of those freshly cut, though neither are as welcome as the diverse blend of spices and everyday bulbs wafting quietly through the air. (Onions: the home-cooking socialite.)

In the park, the river sprawls herself under the setting sun; her once flawless complexion now dotted with plastic poppers, bottles and countless blemishes of human neglect. The surrounding cement rivers lie just as still, adjoined by trusty street signs which wait quite hospitably, like information booths- but without the banter.

Brick and mortar illusionists work hard to conceal mankind from one's sight. The sense of isolation would be believable too, but for the disclosing shuffles and noises backstage: A beckoning yell, a phone ring, an unsourced clang, a door slam, laughter. One even gets to eavesdrop on dreams. At number 64, a slow and hesitant version of Fur Elise tiptoes out the doorway. One block down, a husky vocal rides a wave of power chords and then pauses for a forgotten lyric, or a page turn. The beats and bass of a muffled mashup boom out of a nearby window and one is subconsciously driven into a hopefully unwitnessed 5 second street krump. And a bodyroll. "Suburbi-YO."

The tour continues and ends only where one lets it. Or at least, until evening- when the dusty charcoal curtain printed with luminous yellow squares falls atop it all. And all that lingers for the senses is the night air chill, soft TV jingles and a more distinguishable blend of everyday bulbs and spices, which taps one gently on the shoulder and leads the way home.