Mobile Home
Mobile Home
She wears a black sweater, even though it’s 85 degrees.
All the old, nameless woman has, or ever will have,
is carried in her mobile home. She travels her world
by pushing the worn-out wheels of a shopping cart
left abandoned, away from its parking lot. She is a
lot like the cart, and she defends her prize with an
old dull, but effective kitchen knife. The cart, which
once glided on waxed aisles, now rolls over cracked
sidewalks and rough, uneven streets. She is a
collector of modern antiques, and she enjoys the life
from a cigarette, which hangs from her bright red
lips. Night is a time to rest from another day of living.
To read the poem in French, click here.
Elias Tobias has a fan club web site, and you can get information by clicking here.