McMansions: The Grand New Normal

Lyrics

Out past the Perimeter, where the cell service gets thin.
You smell it first.
Not pine, not clay.
Fresh-cut sod and the chalky ghost of drywall.

There’s the sign, carved in routed wood.
"The Kensington." "The Windsor."
A little piece of England dropped in Forsyth County.
The same gentle curve of the same asphalt street.
A hundred identical mailboxes standing at attention.
Each one guarding a dream pressed from the same mold.

Behold the grand new normal.
The two-story foyer, built to stun the pizza guy.
A chandelier big enough for a city hall.
Six gables fighting for space on a single roof.
And the three-car garage, the real front door,
facing the street like a hungry mouth.
The whole architectural junk drawer, spilled on a half-acre lot.

Walk around back if you want the real story.
The brick veneer stops cold at the corners.
Just acres of beige vinyl siding from there on.
Inside, the formal living room sits under plastic.
A museum of furniture no one will ever use.
The grand staircase sweeping up to wall-to-wall carpet.
It's all about the front. The first impression.

This is the grand new normal.
The two-story foyer, just to impress the Amazon driver.
That chandelier, winking in the afternoon sun.
Seven gables this time, a new record for the cul-de-sac.
And the three-car garage, the true heart of the home,
gaping at the street like a promise.
The whole architectural junk drawer, all sorted and sold.

John Wieland’s men were here, I see the signs.
They cleared the oaks for this.
For the A+ schools and the illusion of safety.
For a castle with a thirty-year mortgage.
A quiet kingdom, ruled by the hum of the HVAC.

Saturday morning.
The drone of a dozen lawnmowers in harmony.
The hiss of sprinklers on thirsty grass.
Another "Windsor" sold.
Another forest gone.