Disturbing the Peace

Even here, where terriers lag,

their liquid tongues lengthening

towards the grass,

as the shade of catalpas 

slides across lush acreage;

even here, amidst muted cheers

for a field goal,

above the shuffle of shoes

aslant a soft lawn at dusk.

Atop the 60-hertz hum of cicadas,

rumbles the crushing current of

rubber across pock-marked pavement,

the sandpaper shift of a school

bus’s transmission,

the skitter of gravel, pealing

behind a rusted ‘96 Saturn SL,

the idling ComEd rig, slouched in an alley,

the scrunch of hubcaps on curb,

the metal-on-metal scrape

of the dumptruck’s brakes, the

bravado of Boeing 737s—sharpening 

their approach—one after another,

every thirty seconds, or

the scissory swell of a whirlybird

chopping towards the Edens.

Every silence strangled.