Pink Flamingo

 

pink-flamingo-trailer-park

The Pink Flamingo Trailer Park
Was on a cul de sac,
With Highway 4 in front of it
And wheat fields in the back.

A shower house of cinder block,
Some graveled winding roads,
And trailers scattered here and there.
Just simple small abodes,

Each rudimentary at best,
A shelter from the storm,
To keep one dry in summertime
And in the winter, warm.

Virginia Klein in number one
Was widowed in the war.
She never took another man,
She wouldn’t know what for.

Instead she had flamingos made
Of plastic and of wire,
Her needlepoint and knitting,
And a cat she named McGuire.

Now old man Jackson lived down there
In trailer number three.
Abandoned, he, by all his friends,
His wife, his family.

Because he was an angry drunk
Who couldn’t keep his hands
Away from wives and children who
Would balk at his demands.

In trailer eight Amelia Glass
Lived with her son, young Tom.
She loved her Tommy half to death,
Was proud to be his mom.

A single mom, she worked two jobs
To make the frayed ends meet,
To feed her little latch key son,
And keep shoes on his feet.

One summer night a whopping storm
Came rippin ‘cross the plain,
The lightning flashed, the thunder crashed,
The ruptured sky poured rain.

And then it grew most deadly still,
The sirens start to blare,
‘Then far away they heard the sound
Of freight trains on the air.

Amelia had to work that night,
A waitressing in town,
Though Tommy tried to call his mom
The phone lines all were down.

As louder came that twister’s roar,
Just like a hundred trains,
Poor Tommy covered up his ears
And screamed his momma’s name.

In morning’s early pale grey light,
Debris was strewn around.
They searched the trailer park in vain,
Survivors were not found.

They laid Virginia down to rest
Beside her husband, dear.
Old Jackson had a service too,
But no one came to hear.

They never found young Tommy Glass.
I’ve heard some good folks say
The angel of the Lord came down
And bore that child away.

Still, somewhere out on Highway 4,
Behind a cul de sac,
A weedy lot is fenced off from
The wheat fields in the back.

And when the moon is waxing full,
When day at last recedes
You’ll see a homeless woman there
A searchin through the weeds.

And when the wind starts pickin up,
I’ve often heard it said,
You’ll hear young Tom. He’ll call his mom,
As if he weren’t dead.

 


© Glenn Meisenheimer, 2011

 

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