the man and the tree

in the park,

i stare at the toes,

of the rusty bum.

in the shade

he sleeps,

he smells

of turpentine,

and cold pizza.

he will be gone,

before the sun

goes down.

i want to

wake him,

ask him if

he knows

anyone famous.

he will talk

of his sister,

how she’s

never been

to the moon,

but will someday.

of decapitated

babies,

from war.

i offer him

a smoke,

he inhales

half,

and hides

what’s left.

he speaks,

of a rendezvous,

with his

sarcastic bride.

would i

like to watch?

i decide

to wait,

for the

moon.

One thought on “the man and the tree”

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