The Haunted Asphalt Lesion

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The Haunted Asphalt Lesion

Houses upon houses containing bored wives in blouses,
can not rescue poor spirits, which Levittown douses,
with its mundane design, devoid of all imagination,
a shoebox metropolis, this cancer upon creation,
whose planning was intended that at each intersection
a church and 7-11 not escape our inspection.
Twisted streets, cold and grey, so labyrinthine
I now drive down alone, uncertain and unseen
having lost my own way, though a friend's best directions
have me pulling out my hair amidst this town's imperfections.
Was it Junewood or Jaunquil or Jadewood or Jittsen
on Dasher on Dancer on Donner and Blitzen?
Frazzled, to put it kindly, I'll make that concession,
it's no wonder those raised here suffer manic depression.
Swirling and turning, leading back upon each other
these streets hold me prisoner - confusion their mother.
Now I'm parking the car, 'cause my gas tank's on E,
as I feel panic rising, my thoughts cry out, "FLEE!"
I clamp down on my wits as I pad the cement,
turning corner after corner, to escape, I am bent.
"Let me out, let me out!" I yell as I turn back,
to find I am standing in the same cul-de-sac.
Now my car's disappeared and my heads bald of hair,
I've begun the dark sojourn into deepest nightmare.

END

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