Audubon, PA



The city of birds built on fertile land 

Is now turned grey

Feathers fall as fast as Autumn spreads in Pennsylvania

On the corner of Meadowlark and Falcon

The dying ironweed and branch-infested pool are what remains

Of old and familial neighbors now escaped from Pennsylvania entirely

In the wilting seasonal transition of flocks flying back to our 

Deep, sultry red Japanese maple tree in the front yard,

Unannounced neighbors unpack and stake claim of the old, faded driveway

And hurriedly transform the corner of Falcon

The sweltering sizzling of the rays and the cacophony of pests by the pool

Cawing, crowing, creating conversation

Remind me that with every block party, winter is further and further away

Gripping their talons into the walled-off kitchen and spreading their beaks to the deserted yard

They cut off the branches of the pine tree that 

Conjoined their yard to ours

So they could renovate and remove any traces

Of the road we used to be


Families of white-tailed deer daintily graze on the only free plot of land along Trooper Road

Connected to the finally fixed 422 and

Placed suspiciously between the average Audubon 

Middle-class family, no single-story house is lived in 

By teenagers that claim they are sick of the birds

But only make it as far as West Chester

Or fly back home like Eastern Phoebes with invisible yarn

Tied to their ankles

Only an off-white, but now

Gray with borders of dying green vines,

Shed remains

Surviving to taint Trooper Road

A man, to which I don’t know his race, age, or even how he liked his coffee

(or if he even liked it at all,

      but I imagine he might have liked the new café down the road)

Lived on Trooper Road

We’ll call him Paul

(because he deserves a name)

Paul was normal by Audubon’s standards

Walked his small to medium-sized dog, if he had any

Went to his 9-5 and stayed overtime, without pay of course

And put food in the bird feeders when

The cardinals, crows, and mourning doves would pick at the dirt instead of fly

On an average Audubon Tuesday afternoon after work,

With the sky in overcast as the sun usually reflects off the clouds

Casting a glare onto the frustrated drivers getting off of 422

In the cluttered trees lining the hills and creeks and rivers and bends

Of the National Audubon Society

Birds still flew like they always seem to do

(as I like to imagine it)

Paul locked himself in his house on Trooper Road

(I like to imagine)

And the neighbors noticed because the communion

Of silently all-knowing acquaintances that plague Audubon never notice the brilliant days

But they sure as hell know every dismal one

The Trooper cops disrupted any semblance of recovery

They try to talk Paul out of his pleasantly decorated front room

With miniature porcelain statues of his favorite breed of dog

In order to hide the disorder in the deeper rooms of his house

Down the street

422 was taking kids to school on bright yellow school buses

And adults to Philly on their daily hourly drive to work

As they continue to ignore the flock of birds scattered from Paul’s driveway


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