The Creeping Beige

by E. W. Shannon

I hate this neighborhood. I always

have; I always will. It should have

remained flat desert. Once this land

was Navajo, now it is Navajo White.

No color, except where the HOA approves.

The residents even average out to beige.

‘Common areas’, certainly living up to their name.

The individual, forgotten under terracotta tiles.

I had almost given up all hope of

finding, anything remotely creative.

While riding my bike on the edge of

the average, a tree stole my attention.

She sprawled in a field like a vamp on a chaise, her

neighbors had all grown vertically, as they had been

told to, but this girl grew to the side, then, after resting

on the ground, she started to reach skyward, like a yawn.

Nine years I made a point to stop,

and say ‘hello’ to the reclining timber.

We both grew concerned when the nursery left,

and took a sigh of relief when it returned.

I knew it was only a matter of time.

Square, modern, unremarkable condos,

contempo hotels for visitors, on what must

have been, the…most…boring vacations.

Square by square,

empty lot by empty lot,

chain-link was the omen,

of a thousand new neighbors.

One early morning, there she was,

caged behind fencing, blocked

from view by green netting, as if they

were ashamed of what they were doing.

I didn’t see it happen, but I saw

the aftermath. Her limbs in little

pieces being flung into a chipper,

her curves cut into wide wood pucks.

Wasn’t it bad enough they had taken her

down? Couldn’t she have been made into

table tops,coasters,modern art,walking

sticks? ‘Progress’ is so rarely progressive.

The next day there was no evidence of her.

My only image of her, exists in my mind.

Soon, beige and taupe square buildings, will

house countless, beige and taupe square souls.