The days, they come and go
like forty-legged joggers opposite his house.
The group is a silly mix of conformity and
differentiation coming in the form
of mix-and-match accessories.
She’s got the earbuds, while he’s got
the headband and the earbuds, and another ‘she’ has got the double layers
with the earbuds but not the headband, and so on.
The years, they come and go
like a pack of baby-pushing mothers
chatting away about advances in strollers,
formulas, safety, and care. They all trade
their findings hoping theirs will become the best,
that theirs will be the one in the front
of the pack.
The man, Old Man Jenkinson, as these selfish pricks call him, stands by his
window monitoring these activities. He lights his pipe
for another satisficing buzz to watch
these groups and observe their behavior. He makes no notes except
for one fully-satisfying sign reading “Stay Off My Lawn.”