He’s the trailer park manager

And has his own double wide

Festooned with cute clay

Smiling animals, but he’s also

Park owner’s henchman who

Tries to track down and evict

Whoever feeds the homeless

Cats. His garage trailer where

He hammers and saws and revs

His Harley is right across from my

Single wide. And over all that

Nerve singeing cacophany, he’d

Blast classic rock loud enough

To penetrate my Hermitage

And fortress of solitude: Skynard,

Bon Jovi, Journey, anything musty

Dumb, and loud enough to

Serve as a soundtrack to his

Mullet-waving idiocy. And to

match the 80s do, he wore

Flannel shirts with cut-off sleeves.

After asking him to turn it down

Several times and having it out

With the Indian owner of trailer

Park hell, I brought in the police.

I stood and watched as the officer

Told him to turn down the

Radio on his Harley several times

As Rob the mullet stood there

Shaking red with rage, all

Five feet six or so of him, like a

Dipshit viking without a axe in

His hand; and I saw it all then, his

Line of fathers and fathers’

Fathers stretching all the way

Back to the Vikings, who raided,

Raped and would have blasted

Their dumb radios too if only

They’d had them. Then the

officer said “Turn it down

Or I’ll write you a Ticket right

now.” And as he said it, the officer

moved his hand over his gun. Well,

Rob turned it down. And things

are somewhat quieter now, but all

this cured me of any interest in

Viking history.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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