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
Waiting
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?"