Deus Ex Suburbia

We don't write poetry
or novels.
Or paint or draw.

We rise in the morning,
the coffee is made,
the paper is on the table,
the children are gone.

We leave and do our jobs
and the world is mostly unchanged.

Then comes evening,
when the sun is heavy in the sky,
when the bats and martins circle,
when the boys and girls are shouting on the fields.

We of the gray flannel suits,
we parents and burghers,
grasp and smile,
tired and refreshed.

And the world, mostly unchanged, smiles and changes with us.
If only but a little.