Suburban Western

I will take 
the strange desert
sky of Suburbia,
for in its
clinical pop culture
cult,
a lingering beauty 
pervades.


The blue 
curves in a 
way geometrically
impossible,
I hold that it 
is unreal.


And in the surrealism
I pause in the street,
a Kodak freeze frame
for a movie poster.
In the middle of the road,
leaning off a bike
and the vast
blue where a title would 
rest.


I imagine the font,
Impact 48,
tracking of 3.
And it looms in the cloudless
suburban sky.


The trees are infants
who are stunted 
and cannot offer arches
for old-time photographs.
So I stand in the modern
frame.


It is a western 
I stand in,
No cactus in sight,
but the sky is just
too big for these 
ticky-tacky houses.


Bigger than Montana
and I stand beneath
its power, picking title themes.