Row after row
Of rusting metal shacks
Masquerading as homes
For the desperate,
Our trailer very much
Like the others…
The yellowing linoleum,
The dingy shag carpeting
That never came clean,
The claustrophobic brown
Of the cheap paneling
That oppressed joy
And consumed laughter.
Home was never a refuge,
Rather a prison to be escaped.
I would sit on the metal steps
Leaning back against
The dented white metal door
Until the grates wore grooves
Into the backs of my thighs,
Notebook in hand
Furiously trying to write
A happier ending
Than the trailer park promised.
~~~ This poem was written a prompt from Poetic Bloomings asking us to describe our childhood home as well as a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to describe a neighborhood where we lived.
