ThisClose

Once upon a time, my neighborhood was made up
Of huge yards upon which rested grand homes

Now, after all of the Greatest Generation are gone
Their heirs (i.e., upwardly mobile children) chop up those lots

And on those stunted lots, new houses grow, either little boxes
Or the recently more popular creatures of “monster” plague infamy

Those wealthier heirs who’ve chosen to remain on their reduced lots
Complain now of noise, congestion, and a shortage of parking

Wild parties go all night long in the Airbnb and Vrbo houses
Because tourists don’t have to put up with themselves

I remember quiet days and subdued weekends, silent nights
When you could nearly hear a pin drop somewhere out there

And those of us spread farther apart back then knew people better
Than all of us jammed in together like sardine Babushkas

Angst-ridden strangers, we’re now packed in such tight, loud quarters
That living happily ever after has become thisclose to a fairytale