Poor, drunken trees by Connor Deeks

Poor, drunken trees by Connor Deeks

 

I think that I shall never see you here again,

Sitting at the bar sipping a cold one, legs crossed.

This never was your scene; it was too “used” you’d say.

Leaves cover the sidewalk out front, the pouring rain,

Skipping down the few ones left on the misplaced tree.

I see a couple walk by, me and you, hands held,

Wait, no, not anymore, I’m here alone, poor me.

Except for this crude poem lovely as a tree,

It sits here on my small table by the window,

Next to three glasses, beer at the base, empty, clear.

That’s funny, I thought I had seven, eight, who knows,

You normally keep track of them for me at night.

That fucking waitress is trying to get me drunk,

Or…or maybe I’m trying to get myself drunk,

 

That tree, who’s hungry mouth pressed against the window,

Yells and spits at me, I yell back. I’ve lost control

Of my indoor voice, but who needs an indoor voice?

I’m yelling at the outside tree, don’t you get it?

Can I get another beer for Christ’s sakes? I’m parched,

No, no, I don’t care what kind just bring one damnit,

I’ll calm down when there’s a cold one in front of me.

 

I pick up my poem, one-eye it for focus,

I grab for a cigarette and my gold lighter,

Ya, that’ll calm me down, a few puffs really soothe me.

Thanks for the beer. I light the end and inhale deep,

The lighter bounces around the table, my poem,

It’s a good first draft, but hell, it’s about a tree,

At least it’s not about her again, or beauty.

Thousands of those litter my apartment, I wish

She still did, but no, my ranting and bar-going,

Those were just too much for a ‘dainty princess’ like her,

Anyway, back to my tree, my orange and brown leaves.

 

I swing my cigarette to the ashtray, knock over

my beer, it breaks, of course, now the big boss is here,

hello Mr. Manager, how can I help you?

Fine, I’ll leave, but because I want to, not because

You want me to. Hey, that’s my poem, it’s about

Trees. Okay, okay, I’m leaving, I’ll go outside,

Stand by my tree, I’m just waiting for my girlfriend…

Wait, no, not anymore, I’m here alone, poor me.

 

 

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Poem of the Day: Trees

Posted: Fri, 26 Apr 2013 00:00:00 -0600

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.