The heater tends to sputter
like a candle running low
while flimsy curtains flutter
when the wind begins to blow
and everywhere is clutter
in a rummage rodeo.
The mobile home is grounded
with every tire popped,
the premises surrounded
by weeds that should be cropped
that hide the kitty hounded
by a waif with diapers sopped
but no one in the bungalo
could care if he is dry,
the TV blares in stereo
the lies they know we'll buy
and somewhere off a radio
moans static we deny.
Are You Reading Me?
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