He’s the trailer park manager
And has his own double wide
Festooned with cute clay
Smiling animals, but he’s also
Park owner’s henchman who
Tries to track down and evict
Whoever feeds the homeless
Cats. His garage trailer where
He hammers and saws and revs
His Harley is right across from my
Single wide. And over all that
Nerve singeing cacophany, he’d
Blast classic rock loud enough
To penetrate my Hermitage
And fortress of solitude: Skynard,
Bon Jovi, Journey, anything musty
Dumb, and loud enough to
Serve as a soundtrack to his
Mullet-waving idiocy. And to
match the 80s do, he wore
Flannel shirts with cut-off sleeves.
After asking him to turn it down
Several times and having it out
With the Indian owner of trailer
Park hell, I brought in the police.
I stood and watched as the officer
Told him to turn down the
Radio on his Harley several times
As Rob the mullet stood there
Shaking red with rage, all
Five feet six or so of him, like a
Dipshit viking without a axe in
His hand; and I saw it all then, his
Line of fathers and fathers’
Fathers stretching all the way
Back to the Vikings, who raided,
Raped and would have blasted
Their dumb radios too if only
They’d had them. Then the
officer said “Turn it down
Or I’ll write you a Ticket right
now.” And as he said it, the officer
moved his hand over his gun. Well,
Rob turned it down. And things
are somewhat quieter now, but all
this cured me of any interest in
Viking history.
— Fyodor Bukowski
