Development

A tree with curling arms and leaved fingers
All the houses on this block are all the same.
Identical.
Their blank white faces plead with my creativity and itching eyeballs
Their eyelids with creaky hinges latched tight
Encrusted with conjunctivitis of stucco and secrets.
The secret is no secret. The insides are the same as the outsides.
Identical.
Leave it to Beaver to mold these lives from the same stencil.
His practiced fingers will never find me.
No.
The chainsaw rips through that gnarled trunk and my heart.
Leave that tree be. It was beautiful.