Floors scuffed raw by thousands of treadless shoes
the rumble of balls 
the clatter of pins

All silent

The balls are lined along the back wall
the pins are gone

The PA microphone droops 
forgotten behind the counter
The “e” is missing from the gated-off ARCAD

The pole was a rental
and thus 
mirrored walls are all that remains 
of the adjoining strip club 

Eyes bloodshot and wide with fear
peering through a small rectangular hole 
cut into the brown paper that covers the window 

Packed into a shack with twenty other men
looking for a better life

Trapped again

Just like back in Haiti

On the sloping porch of Grafton Grange No. 117

generations of women sit surrounded by pine boughs

making wreaths for Memorial Day

At the commune two VW vans 
are parked back to back
beneath the oak in the door-yard

Down the road
the auction started at seven 

The barn yard is crowded
so for a better view
men have clambered onto the tin roof of the barn

The auctioneer
his shirt pocket sagging under the weight
of glasses and pens
wears a crooked green trebly
and mud covered overalls

He pulls a heifer before the crowd
sticking his stubby fingers into her nose
and pulling down her gums

A chair maker from the commune 
with wild hair and an unkempt beard
a cigarette in one hand
stops harvesting cattails 
to sway to the singsong rhythm
of the auctioneer