My Grandparents' Trailer Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Rain on a boat.
Your mother and some other
Animals watching from the shore,
Their mouths and pockets
Getting filled up—
While I dream of getting rich,
Go to the flea market seven days
A week,
Get so much sun my skin cracks
And bleeds
Cancerous peonies—
And I go blind from the wastrels
Of capitalistic hallucination.
Some fat rattlesnake,
Belly fat from lucky rabbits
Sleeps underneath the rotting
Floorboards of my
Grandparents' trailer home
That doesn't exist anymore.