An Evening in the Suburbs

The evening is still out in the woods, except overhead, where the dragonflies jerk a seemingly random flight pattern, disregarding orders, then pleas, from air traffic control to identify themselves and then land in an orderly fashion.

I sit (high) up on the hill, behind the wild grass bush, smoking, sipping a Guinness. The neighbor's daughter/maid brings the trash cans to the curb. She is big and white and solidly built, even from a distance. I peer around the bush to watch her return up the driveway, unaware of me and absorbed in some fantasy where she nearly runs over a drunk and concussed Adrian Grenier who has crashed his car, stranding him on the side of the road, helpless and hot, with a bit of poop in his shorts. She smiles. I feel like a creep, and sometimes I am.

The sun tries to set, but it tires and lingers. It's hazy and humid with an eighty percent chance of showers after midnight.

I go inside and turn on the Doobie Brothers. "What a Fool Believes" blares from the home theater speakers. I dance -- like a white man.