In this mansion’s shade, I appreciate
The trailer park I lived in until late
In childhood when wise men took to sweep
The streets of mobile homes, to make them creep
To other dirt spots or be bought for coins
On the dollar by those who eat sirloins,
For rich men to drag to granite mountains topped
With private land. The man who cropped
This section of the neighborhood sleeps
Unlike our single mothers in their jeeps.
Surrounding men from second stories cheered
When bigger houses, in place of ours, appeared.
I’m happy too, not that we unencumber,
But that this mansion’s scarred with my home’s number.