Mathews Huey

TRAILER PARK IN PRESENT-TENSE

Your punch-drunk something or other

snores perfume in his recliner.

Outside, a lawnmower strikes

basalt, or mammoth tusk.

An earsplit dog

yelps its owner’s name.

The second rocket

launch of the day quakes the yard.

In the meantime, your wingspan

tangles, becomes gale-torn, too spurious

to remember its strength, ribcage

uncoiling like a silver fern

in acid rain.

The world you’ve been wearing

as a scarf gashes at the neck, butterflies away.

Imagine how embarrassed

the dinosaurs would be if they knew

how rabid you are, how featherless.