Sand. In the mouth, hair, eyes. Each breath number 8 sandpaper. That wind is a drunken drummer. Tiny playful gusts of sand whack the metal sides of the mobile home with short buzz rolls. RRRRRRRR. Then quiet again.
The trailers, with their gap toothed porches, are lined up as straight as loose change thrown into a panhandlers hat. It’s the casual way of life. A job here and a job there mixed in with a generous helping of social assistance and illicit pleasure sales.
Two young kids, probably a brother and sister, amuse themselves by exploring, unconcerned with the older folks goings-on. They came upon an apparition. A row-boat in this tumble weed trailer town. Sitting on a lonely dune, abandoned. Squint and the long course grass is the missing water, slapping the sides; reminiscent of the garbage bag waves in a cheap theater production.
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