Neighborhood, by Split Eight and Certain.

[Certain]

The leaves are brown now.
The smoke twists from chimneys and lips.
Our feet crunch across sidewalks, embracing how dimly they're lit.
We know these streets, spinning and flipped.
The broken seams of parochial dreams driven to shit.
Jessica Hardy's home. Crimson, her kiss. We envision its bliss.
We move in silence, our jaws tight with simpering grins.
We know these streets, the left turn onto Braddock Lane,
and how if you pass the Rays' fence, their Doberman Tazz will play.
Mr. Ray — he asked for "Wayne" — would laugh and wave,
but we know these streets, and he's sad most days since Gloria passed away.
There's no one here now. Newspapers on the lawns.
There's no one on these streets except us pacing through our yawns.

We ruled these alleys, and dead ends, from bicycle pegs.
Manhunt. GameBoy Advancing from curbs, with a tally
of lifes left, wailing excuses like life vests to hurl in the wind.
When it rained, we commuted through droplets,
and for the world we bought that if you stopped then you got wet.
Contacts have split, been lost or decayed. I'm playing my numbers.
It's raining page to the cover. How many half-lives still tune into listen?
Neighbors refinish for funeral sit-ins. We're all due to revisit.
Whose funeral is it? We've grown into strangers playing lawyer,
or doctor, and then resume after Christmas. Is it a boy or a daughter?
Dated her once. Boy met a girl, left his moves in his pocket.
Cold comes and uncurls like the showers, or potholes on Cottage.
You don't have to stay for much longer.
Mr. Kinnon's washing Chris's toys in the carport. We must be shitty adults,
Playing pretend is an indoors affair, clinking empty glasses
and again when we let them fill up.
Who are we, on these empty aves, to admit we indulge?
No one mastered the pattern of sympathy,
just counted along from flash of the bulb.
Pity's a fashionable fault. I'd rather get lost
in the attic, unpacking the vault of pennies and cars,
Oxfords, spiderwebbed silky black scarves,
to spin stories that shop through the shelves
in old bedrooms of friends.

Every street sign on Elm has been taken by horror fanatics,
or was it the collarless vandals?
Incorrigible bastards broken by the same streets we know so well.
Bringing in pictures of My Dog Skip for show and tell.
Pedal-pushers. Peddle-pushers. We spoke in Braille,
feeling out the situation. Eloping failed. You can't leave.
We don't know the highways like the back alleys.
Time waits for no last rally. Buzzer-beaters uncompleted
leave us hunting Jesus through these byways, pitch-black valleys.
There's something in the air.
It's Jeremy Martin smoking in his parent's garage.
Another careless facade.
Another street we've walked barefoot to god.