november twenty-seventh time

bodies used to be temples. now
there is the white picket fence
of the rib cage, the golden tint
exterior of tan, the sculpted
idol of arm, leg, hip. the wrinkles
smoothed out like leaves
swept off of the porch. i find myself
lost in a suburb of carefully
mowed lawns (the hair cut just so),
the mailboxes all black and white
(the fingernails with their delicate
tips / flags hailing luxury forward),
and in this Levittown of faces
I am unsure of where the public
space ends and the private begins.