I am a Tree, living historian of weather
record. Grandfather of colonial bridges
and homes. A giggle, you can hear us
when in the breeze apt to tease, fondly
tickle one another. Poetic: To Tree or not
to Tree? So content to be what we are --
man's utilitarian, your selfless furnisher
of shade and warmth. No matter Strong
Oak or mangy willow. What I answer to
is Proud Fellow, member of the Ever-wood.
I sold my stolen joy division box set
to go to a local show with a girl
how's name was in a popular song
on the radio
she had long curly blond hair
like the one from pink flamingo
we ran for coffee out of
the rain that was so cold it cud snow
when we started talking about
hows, whats, wares, whys and when's
her pretty face told me how her mom died
and explained a brain aneurism
baking cakes and cookies sounded perfect
but how would you feed cloth your self
and pay the bills
making furnisher at the university
ruff hands rubbing mine
she looked up in to my eyes
you havent worked a day in your life
half smiling she steal held mine
there wisent mutch ells I wanted to do
resting on top of me
say the right things or
be comfortable with silence
she was from baltimore
and I have pleasant memories of pittsburg.
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