Utopia

we spend all of our time cooped up in shiny, glass-and-metal boxes. we compute numbers, analyze figures, and critique reports.

we put on our suits, our high heels, our ties, and our gold plated watches and try to convince ourselves that what we're about to do actually matters.

and despite our aversion to them, we build more cages just in case we run out.

then when the day is over, we drive back to our overpriced homes in our brand new cars.

and on the weekends, we pretend. we pretend that utopias exist. that there are places so safe and so perfect that nothing bad can happen to us. where everything belongs. where the blue sky is clear and the weather is w a r m.

because this is the place to be.

we walk around in our ralph lauren polos with our leather computer bags. we take our kids out to play in the park...

...and fill our strollers with $hopping bag$ along the way.

jazz music plays from day spas while men check themselves out in the reflections of parked cars as they w a l k by.

and just across the street from our gleaming prisons are stores with tucked-away doors promising us a taste of the exotic...

...and the finest fabrics to remind us of far-away places.

but what about him? does he matter? does he even exist?

is the garden we're planting right next to him more important than he is? because that's all that anyone seems to notice. or are we choosing to ignore him because our recognition of his existence would ruin our vision of the utopia that we are so close to having?

where our alleys are cleaner than most other places' streets...

....and we lose ourselves in a lover's dreamworld...

....or in a game with friends.

where tables with sterling silver utensils and starched napkins are patiently awaiting our arrival...

....as long as we promise to look nice, of course...

...because, after all, this is the place to be.