not the hissing of cicadas, No.
The leftover-nature, duly plotted,
hears the screeching of a worn out truck
dumping a load of frigid boulders.
In the morning,
not the gushing of a stream, No.
Trees that remain, wilted and soggy
hear at irregular intervals
loud retching of individuals in haste.
At noon,
not the raw aroma of vegetables. No.
The remnants, stones scattered,
of an old disintegrated hand-dug well,
smell the stank of a concrete septic tank.
In the evening,
not the melody of birds, No.
The scrubby grass, its forlorn bugs,
gaze at the conceited fluorescent lamps
of a cctv-fixed iron gate.
People, nevertheless,
seem happy,
which complicates the question further,
Is Earth a suburban hell as well?
