Daily Poem: Trailer Park Études ~ Conor O’Callaghan
Trailer Park Études
~ Conor O’Callaghan
The nights midweek are secrets kept.
No soul on site, no signal/bars,
and zilch for company except
a zillion bright disarming stars.
I’ll flit through ambers, quicker, higher.
I’ll break each hamlet’s stop or yield.
I’ll fix some noodles, start a fire
and climb up to the topmost field.
The stars at first are sparse, unclear.
They surface in that drag between
the darkened grass and stratosphere,
of powder blue and bottle green.
They blossom, thick and fast, in droves.
They pulse, in clusters, magnify.
The smoke that’s my potbelly stove’s
frays outwards through each needle eye.
I’ll head below. I’ll char till dawn
some apple logs down to their core.
By pewter light when stars have gone,
I’ll do a bit, a little more.
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