House of Foil Windows

You know the place: a run-down yard
Of dead refrigerators, toys
(The broken kind) strewn here and there
Amid the smell of cigarettes.
The husband always is at home,
The wife away. Sometimes there's kids,
More often not. But different cars
All day and night park right in front,
Although you never see the face
Of driver or of passenger.
The giveaway's the windows, blanked
With foil, in basement or garage.
Of course it's drugs. What would it be,
A safe house for the CIA?
Some lab where Dr. Zarkov stores
His Wormhole to the Stars? Get real.
The question is what kind of dope
They have in there—flake meth or weed
Or crack cocaine—and whether they
Will sell a cheaper hit to me.
Iam their neighbor, after all.

Survivor Poetry Contest
Trigger 36, Form U (Blank Verse, Iambic Tetrameter)