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Let's say we quit our shitty jobs, get rid
of everything, cash in our retirement
and buy a dented trailer, park it near the sea,
let the salty air eat jagged holes
in the flimsy sheet metal siding
and call it good.
A couple
of beat up lawn chairs,
plastic webbing disintegrating
beneath our sunburned backs.
Diet Coke in blood-colored tumblers
under a threadbare awning, tattered corners
held aloft on rusted poles.
On windy days tan sand blowing, ocean
frothy, the hollow poles pinging with grit.
Two rolled up magazines filched
from a roadside mailbox, stacks
of fifty cent books.
No dog
to feed, no cats, no kids,
not even a plant, just a half-circle
of gray stones that say: This is
our dugout, our plot of beaten earth,
Kingdom of Dirt, like the moon etched
with eternal zigzag shoe patterns,
a flutterless flag.
And on Saturdays, cheap sunglasses
and flea market shanties, end-of-the-day
fruit and knobby vegetables, a balding pair
of mismatched socks.
What
else? What more could we need
as the sun dips its red ass in the sea?
A little ditch-fire made from driftwood sticks,
a few ratty palms done up like floozies
in black feathers, torn fishnets,
sashaying against a violet sky.
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