A Galaxy, stuffed to the sagging headliner—

house plants, kids, trash bags full of clothes,

household detritus, all remainders

that refused to fit in a box.

Flashers blinking, coughing smoke,

windows cracked, following behind

a squat, overloaded farm trailer,

we watch in case anything important

tumbles off in front of us—

a ragged couch cushion, or a brother

wind surfing the resistance atop

a wobbly, pressed-wood chest of drawers.

At a tractor’s top speed,

our poor trash caravan chases

Saint Elsewhere, that magical land,

where cheaper rent and richer soil

yields family harmony, fewer bruises,

friendlier neighbors.

Just like all our other houses all promised

before they became

“This fucking place.”