On a hill just beyond the view of the Gulf
a seaside town with freshly repaired sidewalks
and paved, perpendicular streets
welcomes a walk at dusk.
The tops of the palms and oak gather darkness
as the backdrop of sunfall illuminates the cirrus clouds
and horizon of slated rooftops.
There is no hurry to run, but rather an urge for a strong-gaited walk
for energetic muscle and new shoes.
A whiff of cigarette smoke permeates from an open garage,
a front door is slowly opened,
potted plants, white gravel, and vine-encased trees
rest on manicured and unruly lawns.
Sprinklers of reclaimed water spray on some dewy earth;
other patches are dry as decayed bone.
The quiet of Sunday plays peacefully
with absence from blaring sirens and piercing landscape machines.
I bury my face in the descending sun as I wander the footpath at dusk,
in suburbia.
Busted Flip Flops 