- Judith F. Brenner
The triangle on my block is more than a grassy knoll
where children play and parents patrol.
Stay-at-home dads cautiously flirt
with thy neighbor’s wife just to hear dirt
on new places to eat when out and about
or whose house foreclosed and how can we help out.
Rocket balloons whiz overhead.
Colorful condoms are seen instead.
Desirable ‘hood within which you must buy
on this tree-lined, erotic block. Give us a try!
Discreet invitations as adults plot
while the kids circle the triangle on bikes out of earshot.
There’s a late-night party behind her fence.
It’s only for agnostics who piss on the Commandments.
Light bug candles and Weber pit bonfires,
the next day’s smiles smirk of hung-over liars
about when so-and-so went to bed and who staggered home;
whose husband was out of town and who was not alone.
There’s a triangle on my block surrounded by those who swear
that wherever rocket balloons land, sexual innuendos flare.
The tallest fence hides the silent one.
Some neighbors are “all talk.” She’s having all the fun.
—Judith F. Brenner