Reach.
You ask:
Hey, man, what do you need?
I'm only asking as a favor
but if Dick ever finds out
I'm history cuz he don't do
business with deadbeats.
I say, Talk to the trees.
"Reach!" you cry when the copse
creaks ready to draw a bead.
Eggs fly, mama birds cry,
squirrels slip and even termites
lose their grip when the limbs
go high--Reach!--tree branch undersides
glow like pale armpits exposed to the sky.
You say:
"I told you--no trees! Now leave..."
sep 9 2000
seattle