Edina.
Full of happy
families and cute kids walking down France Avenue.
Boys ride down
the streets on their bikes
Talking,
Laughing.
Preppy girls, like
Laura Jasper, who wear Sperry’s and Ralph Lauren,
Ride into the
country club lot in their Beamers and Jeeps.
The man down the
street, Mr. Sonny,
I’ve never
spoken to.
But still he waves
to me as I drive by every morning,
On my way to
school.
At D’amico,
people in line want to talk,
Ask you what you
plans are for college,
Ask where you
live,
What you’re
interested in.
At Barrio I run
into at least five people I know,
All of which
want to chat,
And compliment
me on how much I’ve grown.
It’s an oasis of
happy people and safety,
But that’s not
all I see.
The brand new
house of the sweet people down the street?
Someone unplugged
their drainage system,
Flooding their
entire finished basement.
The old, one of
a kind Edina Gas Station
With its sign
displaying inspiring quotes like
“Believe you can
and you’re halfway there!”
Run to the
ground by a large gas company.
The sign now
reads
“Large drink 59
cents”
The Westerville’s
dog always jumps its fence,
Attacking the
innocent dogs on the block.
There’s barely a
dog that hasn’t gone to the vet for stitches.
George
Lagerstrom,
An eight year
old boy I babysat for every Sunday,
Dound dead in
his bed not yet a month ago,
Found to have
had a bad heart.
The oasis is a
mask for what lies beneath.
All the turmoil
and tension,
Hidden by
smiling faces and happy waves.
