Somekindahome Poem by Butch Decatoria

SomeKindaHome

Indigent / outcast
trailer trash
flotsam.
We are products of our surroundings.

Or is it upbringing?
Taken / down
Far from home
If it's where the heart is...

"Worthless idiot"
She spits on me
Like her rednecks and negro
Big pimping

Her tricks
Quick to flick
Their Bics and dicks
Bringing home the other
Black.

Reynolds wrap and points at the back
Hiding in the thickness
Of weeping veils
Of willows

Outside the picket fences
Just beyond Royale Park mobile
Some kind of
A Community
Missing it's gate
All the times shivoo

Since the South is clammy
Sweat shop swamps
And blistering
Hot like Gold
Coast fires / petrol dragons' breath

(She's a mockery
Of the word -revelations
Turning pages
Now napkins and coasters
Tissue for bloody noses.)

Vagrant vespers
In the dark
she lets the men
Inside her double wide

Inebriated bruises
Polka dot excuses

Even in the city
It's funny
How the homeless can hide
Out in the open

Escape artist
Pacifist spaces.

Indigent / outcast
Trailer trash
Minutiae boy

Barely half /
Legally blank
life blind
Yet lucky to be alive
Still in search of
Some kind
A Home.