three married couples settled themselves in suburban west connecticut
on revolutionary road.
the first were older
having been together for over forty years already, steady retirement,
the wife worked as a neighborhood realtor and their one son
was just run-down, she assured with a smile,
his doctorate in mathematics took a toll
on his sleeping and eating and
he’s down at green acres,
quietly tasting electroshock therapy.
the second are newly married
young and impressionable with a sales position and a parched acting career
blonde, stepford, cigarettes and sherry
two kids in a white house on a sloping hill with a ford in the front and yellow buds by the mailbox
‘the wheelers on 115 revolutionary’,
the marital suburban prototype
as frank commutes to the city for work and spends his lunch breaks on top of the rouge-cheeked intern.
the third are closest to the wheelers
living just above the line of shrubs,
shep can’t keep himself from asking
empty questions to a room full of
kids glued to the midday television set,
so he continues to stand on his side lawn with a glass of ale and
stare at the wheelers’ porch
hoping to catch a flash of blonde.
milly can’t help but constantly rearrange the guest cheese plate and tugs at
the string of pearls around her neck,
politely ignoring the vacant look she receives
when she calls shep back inside.
electroshock didn’t do too much
for the emotional burdens,
but the concept understanding of mathematics
has long passed.
the wheelers can’t go a night without
biting down on the neck of their smokes only to taste bitter grit
so they’ve decided to move to paris,
job free, suburbia free, a new life.
at this news, milly cries to shep at night,
she’s so relieved, so relieved,
he thinks it’s just as ridiculous.
only two kids will do, though.
the dirt cost of living over there only works for four, not five, it’s been ten weeks already,
but before twelve is when it’s safe to get it over with and just think of paris
but they have this at-home instrument
that didn’t mention anything about
post-procedure bleeding and the weakness, the hoarse voice, a roaring ambulance and
it was just too much
the realtor often speaks about frank,
the beautiful colonial on 115 revolutionary and how it sold so quickly
and his new home in the city.
he’d do anything for those kids, hell, they’re all he has now.
such a shame
she was fond of them, they were so different, even from the moment they stepped off the train.
they were just—too whimsical, a bit neurotic, very trying people,
in fact, the new couple she’d sold the house to were really the only suitable people she could envision living there.
very nice, very congenial people.
their paris would have just been foolish,
they lived with crayon on the walls
warped window panes, depreciation,
it just wasn’t right.
and all the while the husband looked on intently at his wife and her shaking head, her pursed lips,
with the hearing aid in his ear
turned entirely off.