MY ORDINARY STREET
This suburban street of development homes
looks ordinary to the passer-by.
But take the Tedescos at number twelve.
Their daughter was the teller
in cahoots with her friend
who robbed her bank—split
it fifty–fifty. When asked why
a nice girl from the suburbs
would do such a thing
she shrugged. But if she’d heard
of Willie Sutton, she’d have said,
“That’s where the money is.”
There’s that hotshot down at twenty,
who thinks he’s a Soros
but still lives on our street
with the rest of the bourgeoisie. This
wizard of wall street, with his frameless
glasses and black BMW
is the one among us
with the most toys.
Or, what about the kid from number five
who killed a girl who crawled from
her window to meet him
at midnight? He’s serving life.
Then, there’s Margaret M. who
wears dark glasses as if she is blind
or cool. See her at midnight,
sprinting in her nightie,
doing laps around the block,
as if the real Margaret
is available only in the dark.
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