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Hannah Jane Weber

Ode to Bluebird Resort

Old single-wide with no skirt, you look like an inside-out robot,

a rough old hussy sagging into the hillside, pink installation like a solicitation,

your For Rent sign barely visible next to the heap of rusty car husks.


Fancy double-wide with faux wood trim and screened-in porch,

you are the pride of the resort.

But when the lake turns, your red shag carpet smells like shad.


Haunted fifth wheel with humming walls,

thousands of termites throb in your decaying majesty.

The fishing pole propped against your aluminum siding pulses with flight.


Deflated airstream, bullet-stained and spray-painted cum white,

your flat tires droop like an old man’s desire,

grubby lottery tickets decorate your windows like cheap pop art.


Lopsided pop-up with duct-tape insurance, your door barely opens.

The rotten wood, pockmarked with fist holes, is a rat’s playground.

When the clouds bump into each other, your walls tilt like two drunks embracing.


Flimsy yellow van, all gussied up with a flat-screen TV, blue lights underneath,

and chrome bumper nuts delicately frosted with spider spittle,

you think you’re the pimp of the resort, but really, you’re just a poser.

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