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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