A tree cast from iron stands proud by the wall,
This tree does not bloom, nor lose leaves in the fall.
It does not give almonds, leaves, berries, or sticks,
This black metal tree that grows down by the bricks,
But faces of porcelain, garish and bright,
In thousands of colors—pink, green, red, and white.
Contorted expressions and antlers grow wild—
A disdainful woman, a curious child,
A drug-addled man bearing eyes filled with fear,
A green-eyed and pink haired and charming young elf,
A Native with earrings and tears on his face,
A mustachioed man with a hat and such grace—
And amidst all these faces stands the body one,
Striped, psychedelic, and vibrant, but alone,
It bears cursive writing in a fine, steady hand,
That circles each section, each stripe and each band.
These are the faces of adversity,
In all over her difference and uniformity.