Wednesday, May 21, 2014
I used to be an urban bird. A darkener of doorways, a reviewer of small press poetry, with a clove cigarette dangling at the right angle to form a impression. I used to live in a crummy apartment Davis Square, Somerville, in the 90s, when Mike's Pizza was the only anchor, before you could conceive of wanting a pour-over of shade-grown organic beans. Before the invention of the Irish bar.
I wore high-top sneakers while proliferating opinions on trip-hop and facial hair. Nothing was gluten free. A lawn was cyclone fence around a weed-riven half-shell Mary.
What was a suburb? You might as well have been talking to me about the Moon. No atmosphere. I wrote about it here, when I moved to suburban Baltimore like a city pigeon caught in a typhoon and deposited in a completely alien landscape of lacrosse dads, ride-on mowers, throw pillows, patio furniture, and kids who were on traveling soccer teams in utero.
I perching at a Starbucks across the mini-mall from a nail place and place that sold bulk muffins. I tried to get my bearings. Then I found Peyton Price. Her Suburban Haiku was the air the dentist gives you to make you forget the drill. I giggled.
"I greet each morning/ with motivational thoughts:/ Today is trash day." Price serves up the good life with a side of wise-crack ("Three big SUVs/ are parked side by side by side./ 'Mom! I can't get out!'") and the humor of an older sister who had gone to the dogs before you: "Buckle your seat belts./ Our next stop is the other side/ of this parking lot."