I want a word for how much one can hate how well he knows a place. That shed, three doors down that I can see from my attic bedroom once contained multitudinous mistresses. My neighbor to the left unsheathes his proud assault rifle to barbecue guests while the coals scream.
I can no longer smell the honey- suckle scent that distilled our stairs and sidewalk. My brother and I would pinch out pincer bugs from those petals under a white wood-woven tattered trellis.
Dog collars clink, and I know which dogs they are, and which owners leave fermenting messages on liberal lawns in long laborious streams; speaking profusely with putrid diction. Just blocks away, a son opens up his parents with a pizza cutter.
I want a place where the houses don’t kiss, where the rifle-talk cookouts are distant resonant palm-claps, where the lawn is one long rolling green comforter and the history is scribed in the soil.