There is no quiet in cities

desolate noir cityscape

There is no quiet in cities or in suburbs,

the ting-ting of car locks beeping,

lonely fifty-somethings and empty nesters

talking to their dogs like pampered replacements

for the children they never had—

surrogates they refuse to see.

There is no quiet in cities,

the drunken shouts of aimless in-betweeners,

not quite men, not quite boys—

circling the drain further of wasted youth

on excess, greed, false promises—

chasing feckless girl-women old enough

to dress to attract, but hollow shells lacking

enough substance to keep their partners,

fed on potato chip dating sites, consumption

of air and foam plastic derivatives

in a candy-coated, apple blue-light special

There is no quiet in suburbs—

Uber, fetch my food, deliver to me, peasant—

late nights ringed in the haze of ganja through

tinted shades,

or the moans of actors (maybe not) in the rental’s thin wall.

The comings and goings of lonely hearts.

We got off the bus from the city to the suburb,

now living in hell, further and farther apart

Here the HOA board inspectors wield an unholy power and a Great War—

Infractions of conformity round every street.

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Rachael Varca

is a writer of more than fifteen years experience. She writes at Inking Out Loud, a collection of essays, poems, short stories, and home of the serialized novel, Heart of Stone.

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