The signs here read old-as-the-rocks
warnings and orders:
“NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH.”
“NO SKATEBOARDING.”
“NO LOITERING.”
“NO DOGS ON GRASS.”
And that oughta tell you enough,
but, really, we’re looking at the skin
without the snake.

They scowl
“NOT IN MY BACKYARD,”
but glare across the front
at the neighbor with the new Audi
and a kid that can win a trophy.

You might pass through and wonder
“What ever happened to two-story
buildings?” But search and you’ll discover
they’re there. One or two homes
now and then
where the owner could spare
a lively lecture 
on why they sold their 
year-old NVIDIA stocks
and why their door has 
brand new key locks.

This town is filled with middle-managers
that bully maybe-managers
for being where they once were
(and because their daughters
won’t speak to them).
Foundations are cemented with decades of
shareholder primacy,
capital gains,
and inheritance claims.
The streets were repaved
yesterday
by workers that rent rooms
in quadplexes an hour away—
owned by Blackstones, or
even by the Jones, whose kids
cycle down the newly paved asphalt.

You want to hate them.
And part of you does,
but can you blame them?
When you’ve got nothing to worry about,
you’ll find something,
and they’ve had nothing to worry about
going-on two decades.

Can you blame me
for almost
wanting to be one of them?