How is this poem?

It is an idea, I quickly jotted down. Do you think I can go anywhere with it? The Many Places... A bustling parking lot, a white washed house, Standing like a monument of protest against a strip of stores. A neighborhood that looped 'round back, and a private road, often traveled. Ivory covered houses behind petal storms, sitting like faces behind veils against a backdrop of woods. A little girl, a red tricycle, and a blue dress, threadbare, yet loved. A little boy, and his group of friends, 10 speed bikes and mean faces- a challenge and a chase, a lost little girl, and a highway that would lead her to other places, to other homes and other townships and cities. To schools, boarding schools and finally other states. To downtown excursions, late night rituals, and first drunken tirades. Tales of sabotage at the hands of friends, and plotted escapes. To the trailer in a trailer park, the first home and a small spending spree. A fake diamond ring and plans for a wedding. To a broken union and baby's first kick, the birth, and a proud mother, a bewildered mother, behind a smile, booties and a bonnet, and last minute plans. A trip back home, and another shot at family life, a second first home in a basement. Hung pictures, simmering stew, and seasoned sachets. A white wooden crib and a screaming tot, a screaming pot, screaming parents, and slamming doors. Slamming doors against mothers who drop their kids like gift baskets upon your lap, a diaper bag and its contents spilling across the floor; cased secrets spinning upon a shelf, and a shaking room against screaming, screaming , and accusations. And then tickets upon a night stand, a quickly scrawled letter, and a ragged suitcase, threadbare, yet loved. and a plan, a half hearted plan to get away. But not until years later, when ripples settle, and waters have since stilled, with a child half grown and plans of her own, on a random event. A requested stop along the way, a brief pause beneath a sycamore tree and an out of place bird upon a limb. A welcoming chirping chatter, like an old friend. A small paved lot, a small gray house, and newly owned shops. The same size it has always been.
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This is lovely. The fifth stanza really ties it all together. For a longer piece, it is so easy to read and follow. You are my favorite new Yahooligan. It was Elaine that made me read your work. TD
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