I live in a trailer park,
beyond a decade now.
I suppose outside of here,
they're called "mobile" parks.
Here, they're trailer parks.
There is a trailer hitch,
but that ain't pulling this ***** nowhere,
no-how.
Trailers in Juneau, Alaska stand crookedly rectangular,
with a 60s/70s "I wasn't built for this ****" tiredness.
Rust, moss, fungus, dirt, cat ****:
dilapidation,
all common traits to the TP kingdom.
These are rhomboids with a forceful will
to be real homes, on steel beds with wheels,
propped up on cinder blocks, ambition, and dreams.
Modifications and additions have been nailed, and *******,
and glued and affixed in every possible manner conceivable.
An 8x4 plywood laid on a tarp to stop a leak is not a repair, but an
improvement.
These improvements make the mobile into a trailer,
flirting with that trophy ***** ******* called home.
No disrespect.
Expensive, alluring, pay-as-you can,
home ****. They'll take you for all your
worth. And smile. And so will you.
Real people **** and make love here.
They die of cancer,
go through pregnancy,
pick their nose,
do math homework,
*******,
write poetry,
*******,
do ****,
mow lawns,
hold children hostage,
make coffee,
help their neighbors,
go to vote,
make art,
***** their neighbors,
dream.
They slide their backs down the walls
of their homes in bouts of sorrow,
turning their guts into fistfuls of rocks
and despair. Heaving out their regrets
in spit and snot and fury.
They all live here.
And so do I.
