On the west side of town, country meets suburb.
There’s a neighborhood lined with shady oaks and wooden houses,
peeling fences draped with vines. This pitted road remembers
when people mostly walked. The next street bares
the smooth driveways of American dreams, sun-burned
houses of stucco, front lawn weeds that whisper
about divorce and debt. A towering sign in an empty lot
advertises a planned community called Sedona.
Maybe the marketing team is not laughing
at the future middle class buyers. Maybe they believe
they’re bringing the spirit of ancient red rock to this valley.
In the exact center of the lot, there’s one tall green palm.
Were the others already culled? Or was it placed there,
a toothpick in an appetizer for free enterprise?
Loud and clear, the magic words, may I take your order,
drift from the new fast food drive-up around the corner,
and we all answer yes, please because how can we resist?