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Updated: Jan 21, 2022

Who were the suits who voted from the back of the room?

They don't live on our streets

They don't shop in our stores

They're not our friends and neighbors

They're the absentee landlords

Realtors and developers

Who hover on the edges of our community

Not unlike vultures


With preplanned profit

They smile among us

Feigning friendship and concern

The harbingers of "infill, densification and light rail"

The Three Proselytisers.

They envision concrete caskets five stories high

Skirted by zero setback front and sides

Nothing green and grown

Nothing living, waving in the wind

No summer lawn hissing

Only long halled rows of doors

Leading to private, unshared worlds

Cocoons of separation

Linked only by nods or grunts

On the unavoidable occasion

Of accidental eye contact

Soft carpet padding

And muffled knocks

Of never-ending streams of strangers

But where do the children play?

Neat tidy rows

Of traffic calmed car trails

But no place to park no place to park

NO place to park

All boutiqued and bedecked

With trendoids lounging

A gourmandic spectacle

With antiquery accents

No need for drug store practicality

In Sell-More-Land

But where do the children play?

Follow the money

And you'll find

A trail of your uncounted years of labor

Drenched in the sweat

Of your grand-parents’ dreams

Thinned by tears

Of generations yet unborn

The heritage of open spaces lost--

Stamp sized yards

Swathed in Martha Stewart designery

It's quiet

It's civilized

Wine glass tinkling laughter

Splashed with political correctness

And very generous incomes

But where do the children play?

Children? Children?

Dahhhhling . . .

Who cares about children?

--Renee Kimball

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What a commentary on life these days, Renee. You nailed it!

"Where Will the children play?"

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