Back To The Trailer Park

Her back pressed against the concrete barrier, Pearl heard the troll-like rumbling of the cars going by. She smelled smoke and fumes and shit and other human olfactory run off. Regardless, she wouldn’t move. Her cup was the fullest after a day here. And she didn’t have to dance.

“Smoke man?”

“Yea, here you go.”

“Thanks, bless you.” She pulled out her Bic and lit the charity Camel filter.

The sun went down; a huge truck had its red hood open, snobby nose. No, the sun hadn’t gone down. The sky had filled with clouds. And the truck was belching. Yes, the sun was going down, but not quite down, but who would know the sky was so pregnant with clouds, blue a mockingbird, blue a mock mock mock.

Clink in her cup.

“Thanks.” Mmm money was distracting. She would buy bread and a pint, maybe even a pack of smokes. Smoke smoke everywhere but nothing left to inhale.

Now the night was claiming broke, begging for money from the noble stars, the wealthy moon, the filthy rich winds of left and right. Foot traffic was waning. Almost quitting time, soon she would hear the siren, the Flintstone quitting time whistle installed in her head. Slowing to a spit, people rainstorm spun itself out, their own whistles, yes they must have whistles, and how else do they know to go home.

Pearl decided to head to the store and make her way across the air walk over the highway, hidden by weeds, hidden by random real plants eaten by weeds, cannibals, weeds have a bad reputation, bad thrived, just like in the people world, just like in the real world, the bad grow and increase and prosper and the good languish and long to be watered.

Sick of smelling tires.

Back to the trailer park.

FM Moment

that feeling that

this song exists to

play on $6.99 office

clock radios Friday

4pm or Tuesday lunch

break trendy shoes

for the commute with

Yankee Candle Car Jar

hanging and getting wasted

at the bar the night

before with your

coach bag and stories

with your girlfriends

about broken down cars

and boys cheating at Patriots

games with skanks

in players jerseys

and frosted pink lipstick

and saving a secretary’s

salary to pay credit cards

used for the newest

Tiffany necklace

and just waiting for

the ring,

Italian Wedding Soup, honeymoon

 to the Bahamas, baby

shower, knocked up too

fast, then there is 2, 

house, beer stocked

fridge, the newest recipe for

Velvetta dip, Pop Warner

 petty conflict, Channel 7 News,

Mumbles Menino, 401K, 

seniority, Christmas parties, too

much wine as truth serum,

pictures of the kids high school graduation

bringing them back

to their glory days

“oh! What a Night” booze cruise

puking at prom, bright

promise and now their parents

are getting up there and eyes

stamped crows feet and

kids off to college and getting

lucky on saturday night

means scratching money for

more Gold Rush lotto tickets,

newest biggest tv life

where soon separate beds

and bitter hidden closed doors

behind (sham?) marriage

minutes are creeping while

years are seeping back into the mud

and its gone

feels like life is gone

while perpetual radio waves

are still bouncing