They’ve got the Christmas trees
Lined up
At a hardware store off
Canal Street.
Wrapped in twine
And lined up,
Leaning on their sawed off knees
From a tree farm.
As they come off that truck, they are
Handled by a number of men
Who look like they could
Just as well
Be handling
Bags of birdseed,
Pig carcasses or
Kegs of beer,
They look like
People tied up pretending
To be dead.
But the eyes, that’s what gives it away;
They’re wide as hell
Saying,
Get me out of here.
The shag
On those trees
Reminds me of my
Many brothers.
It’s the hanging
Wisps of graying hair
That makes me think of it.
And all the times
I saw them when I was home,
And all the times
I did not.
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