Sitting on the Bench in my Front Yard

I’m at my house in San Tan Valley,
which is the suburb of a suburb of a suburb,
built over of fields of cotton, long since forgotten,
and which isn’t really a valley, technically,
and don’t ask me about “San," or “Tan,"
because I don’t have a clue
what they mean, nor do I know who
would know, or even care,
about such a thing.

But that’s what they named it,
so that’s what I call it. San Tan Valley.

If the name at first seems weird,
that’s normal. New haircuts, too,
seem unusual. They take a while
to grow on you. 

By the way, see this bench?
The neighbors left it when they moved away
so my wife and I brought it over one day.
I painted it purple. Do you like it?

And these are my daughters, Trudy and Greta,
digging with twigs in the gravel.

I used to think this town had no history,
that rows of tan stucco houses
somehow lacked authenticity,
but after five years of life in San Tan Valley,
I affirm that culture is
right here in my own front yard,
and that history is more than
cobblestone streets or
courthouses made of brick.