Trees of the Field

Alone in the living room

smoking a slim I don’t remember

lighting, kneeling

on the worn sofa

just acquired from the curb.

A burnt orange couch carrying

some other family’s fort memories.

Outside the picture window

the warm day fades, a large maple

balances itself

inside a narrow strip of earth

bound by sidewalk and curb.

The tree moves

an odd way.

Unnatural

clapping its leaves at me,

reminding me of

a song I used to love.

And all the trees of the field

shall clap their hands.

*clap* *clap*

Humming and snapping

I am caught up in lightness

What are you

so fucking joyful about?

the darkening glass

gradually morphs into a mirror

Did you honestly think that tree

was clapping for you?

interrupting me

with my own reflection.

You stupid

embarrassing pigbitch.