The suburb of white bread is dead. <br />It sits lonely in the dusty trophy case <br />We pass it by and never read the tarnished plaque. <br />with its faded Leave It To Beaver graffiti, <br />as our blocks are now spiced <br />with Sikhs, Serbs, and Salvadorans. <br />Oh, the old chemical lawns <br />and dismal architecture are still here. <br />But so is Beef Biriani, mafé, and <br />the smells of continents.<br /><br />Michael Philips<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/adios-suburbs-hola-suburbs/
