Hamlet in Suburbia Part of a pattern now, abandoning A decision thought previously worthwhile, He rolls another cigarette and slumps Into the cerise armchair by the hissing fire, Whose bland susurrus underscores his meditations.   On the patio, beyond venetian slats And wrought-iron bars, the giant green lily leaves curl back, Stirring a little in the desultory wind. The villa’s colour scheme: white trim, blue guttering Is echoed in the vacuous sky And phalanxed storm clouds’ slow manoeuvring.   An insular, sterile suburb with few sounds of life, Few footfalls or voices from the empty streets. Here life is measured…