Suburbia in Isolation

by Yejin Suh

Around the corner from Rock Rd to
South Maple I’m watching a drive-thru

birthday, cars in procession, squared-off
in gift paper, a great parade. I string along,

dragging my dog to the fence, yipping,
yanking, to give her a little privacy—our

local drugstore is taping an X underneath
my feet so I back up only breaths away from

a double Twix under the cash register, a
dollar twenty-nine, and it’s too late, I’m

too unlucky, Guess I rolled the sevens, blares
someone’s TV through a yawning window,

and I can’t help but agree at the rows and rows
of dewdrop lawns, of mothers churning kale

and raw honey on marble islands, of even sidewalks,
of the symmetry that converges at each intersection of

wide-rimmed and open-windowed homes, each
clipped bush and gutter and slanted
woodchip that is perfect suburbia.