Trailer Park Garden
by Alejandro Aguirre
Stevan Dohanos, 1951
The move South? That was John’s idea.
He hums “I’m in the Mood for Love”
as he baits his line. His missus soaks
her garden in hopes that the foxgloves,
remnants of her Bay State, will survive.
They won’t. The sods have done well,
though, invading the beach like waves.
John has pilfered a conch shell
from the hermit crabs in queue
for bigger, better-suited homes; now,
sans conch, the crustaceans settle
for discomfort. John’ll make a show,
later, of a call on the shell-phone.
His missus is privy to pretend,
never dialing friends, so to assume
they’re still alive. She smells the scent
that her college dormmate wore—
a dry-wood—half a century ago:
reminder enough. She waters
the foxgloves. Her smile hangs low.
Another woman unhangs towels
like pictures, as a man buffs
his Chevy Deluxe. A stoic flamingo
stretches its iron legs. Just as tough,
a snowbird, in his beak a cigar, carries
letters from the north, where birch
grows icicles in lieu of leaves.
Won’t read them, nestled in his perch.