ekphrastic
the morning after the landscapers come through
with their chainsaws, a young couple
sits on the stoop of their plainfaced
railroad apartment
and stares at the remaining stump
which, by the way, looks
utterly defeated, an uneven bisection
surrounded by its own debris - sawdust
and splinters littering the
concrete span like a crime scene
if procedural cop shows starred
trees and other assorted urban shrubbery
like death, if you want to call it that
(wait - you do, don’t you?)
the job is presumably unfinished, the body
left to think about what it did wrong, pending
a later date, an
eventuality.
they will come back to wrench roots
from soil - to make it like
nothing died here!
the children can return
with their chalk and their bikes
freer than ever before
the couple looks sad
everything looks sad
from a downward angle haven’t you ever
been to a funeral?
look at them, they look
like they lost someone
maybe trees in the city
leave a void that children can’t fill
maybe chalk can’t unmake tragedy
and the railroad apartment should have
warned them of the men and their
saws, not just
turned them loose into the aftermath
they don’t hold
funerals for trees
since, maybe,
trees fold too neatly into other things
once killed, and that doesn’t sound
a lot like death, even when it is, but
I mean Christ, mourning doesn’t cost a thing
except when it does and
when it does, it costs a lot
better to forget it, if you can.
better if nothing ever dies here again.
the couple is rooted to the steps
looking like they may remain invariably
as the day claws its way forward
the woman pulls a
pack of Spirits from her shorts
the man fishes for a
light