L'Engle's So-Called Sci Fi [Suburbia]

I think some of the best poetry is a random story in poetry form but nevermind. Aww this was nice, I dunno I was drawn to it, I do think that the changes Brad made were an improvement, but you know all published poetry has usually been revised time and time again. Anyway in conclusion this was a good idea, very promising work.

I didn't like the random line jumps, gaps between words, crazy enjambement. I think overall it's okay, but if you sorted out the structure it could be much better.

Brad's version goes someway to improving it, I must say, but it's still like...a random story written in a poetry format.

thanks.

there's this tiny little side street
just behind the park
across from whitman's drugstore and
just where the interstate joins
in a curve leading off somewhere

i

don't

know

where, maybe to someplace better
someplace alive

every morning the dad, the man of the house
teeth brushed
hair gelled and straightened to within an inch
of its life
navy blue blazer and black
no, onyx( at least
that's what the catalog said)
the wife steps out with him
and he kisses her on the cheek

smack

and a tiny kid, oh maybe 4
with these great big blue eyes and soft, clean blonde hair
a living polo ad in his red shirt and khaki slacks
perfectly pressed and creased down the center of the leg like
mommy wants
recieves a firm pat on the head and his eyes
fill with great big tears that beg to spill over
his little pink cheeks

no daddy, don't leave

but he smiles and stops and
looks down the street at the neighbors, the Prestons
doing the exact same thing
as daddy turns and gets into his black porsche
and drives down the street
into someplace completely different
it's called
rea- real- realty...realtiy
maybe
the boy is patted on the head once more and his mom
strides down the front walk
in unison with the Prestons and the Knightlys and the Rivers and...
their high-heels clicking at the same speed
creating this eerie noise

clip clap clip clap

and then a small screech as the mailboxes are being open
slightly rusty
they all curse at the same time
for their broken box
then all grab their JC Penny catalogs and go back in
the house
leaving their sons
on the porch
and go to make lunch
(campbells chicken noodle with a tall glass of milk)
the blonde boy
as if programmed
turns to follow her but

stops

to

look

down

the street

where a man in jeans and a t-shirt sprints down the uncut lawn
brushing his hair on the way, being chased by a snot-nosed,
popsicle-sticky little redhead girl wielding a plastic sword
and thick blobs of oatmeal come flying
out the door and a woman

inside

yells
'have a good day, honey' behind the man
as he jumps into his car
a beat up old toyota minivan and screeches in the opposite direction
out of sight.

the little boy knows what it is

r-e-a-l-i-t-y

-------------------------REVISED-----------------------------

there's this tiny little side street
just behind the park
across from whitman's drugstore
and just where the interstate joins in a curve
leading off
somewhere
i don't know

every morning the man of the house
teeth brushed
hair gelled and straightened to within an inch
of its life,
navy blue blazer and black
no, onyx
(or at least that is what the catalog called it)
kisses his wife on her cheek
as they step out into
the world.

smack

and a tiny kid, maybe 4
with these great big blue eyes and soft, clean blonde hair
a living polo ad in his red shirt and khaki slacks
perfectly pressed and creased down the center of the leg
just like mommy wants
recieves a firm pat on the head and his eyes fill
with great big tears that beg to spill over
his little pink cheeks

daddy, don't leave

but he smiles and stops and looks down the street
at the neighbors, the Prestons
doing the same thing
as daddy turns
and gets into his black porsche
and drive down the street
into someplace different
it's called
rea- real- realty...realtiy
maybe
the boy is patted on the head once more and his mom
strides down the front walk
in unison with the Prestons and the Knightlys and the Rivers and...
their high-heels clicking at the same speed
creating this eldritch sonata
in the blaze of a morning sun

clip clap clip clap

and then a small screech
and the mailboxes are being opened
slightly rusty
after cursing at the rusty and old metal mailbox
they all grab their JC Penny catalogs
and go back in the house
leaving their sons on the porch
and go to make lunch
(campbells chicken noodle with a tall glass of milk)
the blonde boy
as if programmed
turns to follow her but

stops

to look down the street

where a man in jeans and a t-shirt sprints down the uncut lawn
brushing his hair on the way, being chased by a snot-nosed,
popsicle-sticky little redhead girl wielding a plastic sword
and thick blobs of oatmeal flying
out the door and a woman inside

yells
'have a good day, honey' behind the man
as he jumps into his car
a beat up old toyota minivan and screeches in the opposite direction
out of sight.

the little boy knows what it is

r-e-a-l-i-t-y