Ode To The Tin Can

Twenty-three feet of you has fit five foot nine of me
For days-- three hundred and forty-seven with more to come.
(There is less of me than before, you know, and see
The weight of me we do not discuss; y’all--forget your sums.)

Fleetwood, with a Mac, though no Fleetwood Mac,
Your tan and brown skin now pale to my skin tan.
Less of me means more room: In the fridge, clothes and sack.
Flushing TP, long showers and even baths are banned living In The Tin Can.

I light your fire. Not as seductive as it sounds, it’s just your pilot light,
But it’s still a frequent and spontaneous feat, come high winds, bad gas
Or even just your twenty-two years of earthy age, it’s just for the fight
As you thrill at my being battered about, getting revenge upon this lass.

Tendrils of hose, long lengths of wires, even a drain to a hole for ‘black water’
Spawning others as the land’s trailer park squatters mushroom just beyond.
Electricity spurts and glows in turn, powering water pump; yes, Yawn,
Even casting its shine as I sleep, drawing bugs, flying ants and critters un-fond.

Yet, for all of that, My Dear Tin Can, you serve as guardian to Lil’ Bun and Lil’ Bit,
Lizards, ants, babies and adults, Netflix nights and rusty steel parts.
You, of course, have no choice, but these are the joys that keep me from fits.
I guess for those and thats, I should sit and purr, not just sit and farts.

Leaks—there were none ‘til that big storm, now skylight holes from hailstones
Leave fluid upon the sheets, floor, me and thee--whoever thee may be.
Well water is tasting…well-ish but bueno-ish, too; Hey water’s great for the bones!
What with all the minerals, dirt, microbes--there are none, it’s been tested, you see.

Winter’s storms and cold, hurricane-force winds nearly every day,
Scorching sun, no trees, a quarry’s worth of rocks and then some—
In this harsh Neuevo Mexicano desert, You, My Tin Can, I must say,
Have been my salvation, friend and foe to which, most days, I duly come.

How can a rural high school teacher such as me bemoan your shelter?
Though I wish to hell I could burn you, I can’t afford to; You would not
Burn if I did—You are just that way. Can we all say Helter Skelter?
I knew you could. I would, if not for the bank man in Underoos, his money is sought.

Desperate nights and days rollicking upon unseen waves of air, the soundtrack
Of The Wizard of Oz keeps me so often in the mood, version MP3,
Otherwise, a worn out record groove. Tin Can, you are a cruel mistress-hack!
Air mattress, full-sized, upon a two-tiered slab offers merely a place where NOT to pee.

Six steps from horizontal oblivion, through kitchen, dining, closet/storage to the loo.
(The house will seem so gargantuan!) Six stumbling steps, with my greatest hope
Being that m’head ends up in the shower, while me bum settles in position to poo
In the hole versus the tub. Though m’hair could be washed in either place, given soap.

The fridge freezes, the freezer suffers not from global warming, as its ice floes
Grow and grow and grow. One more month, I tell myself. One month more!
But I’ve said that for six or seven months now. And the winds they still blows.
Seasickness IS possible in this high desert abode, my psyche is sick and ego sore.

Six hundred and seventeen square feet, most of it pressed chip wood and veneer.
Cold as outdoors in winter, hot as Hades in summer, without propane and a/c
My weather beaten body wouldn’t’ve been found until sometime next year.
Oh! Tin Can, what a conundrum ist thee; an eyesore, but rent-free you be.

I cannot glorify this life of trailer trash any more, I’ve had it, and so it shall be,
That when the house is done so will this saga of headstrong choices—naw!
For though I can cite many life experiences, most of which common folks cannot see,
For this adventure, I will remind, was never meant to last. Where the hell is the saw!?