Suburbia

The couch tugs me like little hands and
my shirt slips downward. It
is raining outside. Lightly,
inconsequentially,
as if the shoes left in the yard wouldn’t
eventually soak through if
the drops were transparent enough
to fall unseen. But I
know: I know that my
downspouts will flow. Rivulets
crossing my driveway will
pool in my neighbor’s garden,
drowning her hydrangea

which, in a sense, I use too —
after all, aren’t these things,
natural?
Aren’t they gifts to the earth?
Can’t neighbors look
after one another?
I worry the fringe on the throw
pillow beneath my arm.
From the television waves of cued laughter
lap across the carpet as the rain
scratches at the screens
and I get up, stepping forward
into the center of the room
and he asks me,
“Where are you going?” and
I answer, as always, “Be right back.”