Moving to the cul-de-sac,
this city boy already keow there’s
only one way in. Just turn right for
a quarter-mile or so, past kissing-cousin duplexes
cuddling in their allegedly chaste suburban way.
Where the road rises you come upon the ring
of homes where I live, realize your mistake
and drive ’round the grassy circle at its heart
back into the world.

I’ve imagined driving faster and
faster in a fescue-centered orbit
as houses flash by in their glassy-eyed
oh-so-attentive-to-everyone-else’s-lawn way.
It feels like I’m their grade-schooler alone
on the merry go round or another neighbor’s
teen making my first solo in the family SUV.

I wonder if that’s how you reach
escape velocity out of here.
I mean besides driving out that road
you came in on. I guess there are those
idle reveries over a lawn tractor’s front end,
perhaps some multi-cocktail-lubed daydreams
or maybe that long-ago nightmare
come fatally true,

Each could be one of the few ways I can
think of bidding au revoir to where
all kinds of dreams, from American to unmet,
can stop, and drop roll or maybe just
keep on circling in place, going nowhere, really.
But I guess that’s what cul-de-sac means.
It’s just a fancy dead end en francais.

Poem number 30, the last of this year’s Poem-A-Day NaPoWriMo. The call was for a “dead end” poem. Well, I’m dead to this project at the end for another year, even though I tend to write something new every day. Tomorrow, I try my hand at a story each day in May. So hang in there, dear reader. This could get ugly.

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