It’s pretty quiet today,
one skateboarder clomping over
the cement of the basketball court,
a few guys sitting on a bench.
Louie drives by in the golf cart,
little ponytail pulled back,
red tinsel taped to the windshield.
This morning a Vega
broke down in front of the clubhouse,
and now it’s pushed in a parking space
at an odd angle.
Our little trailer park,
looking like a ‘60s postcard
of the good life:
Palm trees flattened on a blue sky,
taken from enough of a distance
that you can’t see the rust stains
running down drainpipes,
mailboxes battered and bent,
or the cars, sun-striped and heavy,
rolled to the back of carports.
No, there’s only a pleasant nothingness,
a weighted stillness,
and a glimpse of oranges
strung like ornaments
on the last of our remaining trees.
Published Threshold 2026
Photo by Documerica on Unsplash