No one writes books about suburbia. Criticisms, reality tv episodes, and poor city planning policies, yes, but not books. Poetry is not alive inside plastic S.U.V.s. waiting for a signal to change. Life here maybe too spread for romance, too corporate for the human touch that writers seek. Does love and lyric arise spontaneously on errands between Walgreens and Costco? Perhaps the muse is bulldozed with the hillsides. The human heartbeat dampened without wild flowers in Spring.

It seems that a newly developed tract of houses contains no homes. And even after their garages are filled and working adults, honor-roll students, and trendy dog have moved in, the big stucco structures look empty, though the lights may be on.

Character is vivid in cobblestone streets, in ornate main street store fronts, you can taste it easily in the fresh bakery bread toasted in half-century old ovens. Not so in asphalt, pre-fab construction - no deep senses satiated at chain restaurants.