Well, it’s not a trailer park, really.
Oh? Really?
It’s a retired-senior-citizen-mobil-home-village-rest-stop
before the stumbles, the hip surgery,
leading to the Windy Willows Rest Home.
It’s serious about the SENIOR thing.
You can’t live here unless you’re over 60.
And, it’s quiet,
a ghost town with no ghosts.
After Thanksgiving, the snow birds
flee to Florida to roost.
The rest of us hibernate in double-wides
while Jose plows the drive ways.
Of course, by April, with Robins and Goldfinch,
Tan Floridians flock back to their nests,
while I, all winter frozen in a daily equinox,
aging an extra hour each time
I drive through the gate,
praise the boxing up
of the plastic Santa and the glowing Menorah
greeting us since December 1st.
We will greet them next winter,
maybe.