This Is Just A Draft—

Maurice Olivier

Then a month later, I find a stray trailer park and bring
it home. The first night it stays at my place it gets
tangled around my leg as I wash its hair. Its
hair is thick with streaks of corrugated
fencing and is combed in a way
that conceals two large ears.
It says it always planned
to live in a real house
and drive an
imported sports
car. Condensation on
the bookshelf. A kitchen
drawer half open. Carpet burns
longing to find their next victim. Or
maybe, hungry for some baked Alaska
and a garden aching with green symmetry
then enclosed by cute little baby teeth and a
bib with faces of clowns on it. Or the chocolate
pudding strains felt like strangers. But I'm way ahead
myself. The iridescent salmon shiver has yet to be born and
the trailer park and I must first resolve tons of personal
issues before the June wedding, our honeymoon in
sunny Bakersfield and the ultimate attempt to
cram our affections into the mouse hold of
a hot kettle with a long spout while the
petite heroine in red silk glides in
tiny steps across the makeshift
stage to the clash of
rubber swords.