Wrist Deep

Trouble in the Suburbs

Trouble’s what we’ve got coming.
It’s just crested the white-capped mountains,

is just about to spread, just about to file
down slopes through ravines,

through scars carved millennia ago
by ancient glaciers, about to cover

chaparral and grassland lying low
before it roars back up, geyser-like,

to make its way like a parade
into townships, rural development projects,

between cookie-cut, pop-up houses,
up and down gutters, overwhelming

the street-sweepers, pooling up,
flooding streets where proper drainage

is less than lacking, scaring the shit
out of the city counsel who’s yet

to address the situation,
about to knock on your door,

about to crash through your windows,
ruin your carpet, steal your children,

raise them to be thieves, drug addicts, or worse,
poets, about to take the air out of your lungs,

about to leave you bruised and broken
hearted, ready to disappoint,

and trust, you will be disappointed,
and definitely not spared because

trouble’s what we’ve got coming.
Trouble is already here.