I Went Out to See All the Downed Trees
Nothing was where it was supposed to be
or even where it was twenty minutes ago,
one of the only times I’ve understood
what nature was trying to say
to me. But the people I always see
at the farmers market being very specific
about their mushroom selection weren’t
listening, already dragging branches
onto the curb, fixing their lawns,
resetting their Black Lives Matter signs.
These were the people blasting
‘Celebrate good times, come on!’
from their front porch window
on the day Joe Biden was elected.
One of them was high-fiving
a police officer. The branches were still green,
on the ground. The sun hadn’t browned
the dead leaves yet. There was part
of me that trusted them, my neighbors.
I hadn’t locked my door when I left.
One neighbor said, I hired an arborist
just a few weeks ago, and he said
this tree was fine. The neighbor
motioned toward a tree currently
pulling black power lines down
on top of their red Subaru.
Who could afford an arborist?
I would never own a house,
or a tree, or my own car,
but these were my neighbors, and we
had to clean this up together.
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