In this suburb, where manicured lawns stretch out,
And HOA rules like invisible chains do bind.
We speak not of change but of stability's pause,
Of appearances keeping the chaos at bay.

Each leaf must fall in a manner we've defined,
With shrubs pruned to match the quiet uniform,
The laughter of kids muffled by unspoken codes —
No drums, no bass, just whispers and drones.

We tiptoe around viktrax's noise,
Yet nod politely when it's time for dues.
His recording studio a blemish we ignore,
A stain on the neighborhood's facade so pure.

The PTA meetings are where we polish words,
Where "fit" becomes more than physical form —
It's who you know, how many friends you've made,
How well your story lines up with ours.

Here, property values dictate every whisper,
Each glance exchanged across the street's divide.
We're gatekeepers of a vision so pristine,
That whispers of reality dare not intrude.

This is our tongue — soft-spoken yet potent,
Where every choice is weighed by its weight,
And in this delicate dance of societal norms,
Our silence speaks louder than any debate.

Warmly,
Karen M. Whitmore
HOA Board | PTA Treasurer | ~Wine Mom~
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