Up on the hill in Deer Island Park, a sicamore is felled. 


no one attends it's funeral, or wears a black veil in it's honour. 

a man used to sleep under that tree, a woman took her children there for picnics. 

once, there was even a litter of kittens born in it's limbs. 


No one saw it on it's way to the timber yard, no one put flowers at it's final place,

the preacher never came. Not a word of prayer was spoken. No rosary bead touched 

for it's life. 

now there is a stump. The homeless sometimes rest there, and the occasional 

stray dog takes a piss on the rotting wood. 


somewhere in Oklohoma a boy cries. He sits on his swing, pressing his earth-hardened

bare feet into the splintered porch deck. he has no reason, just tears. 

some say that when a person dies and no one cares, that the mourning is then assigned 

to a random, unsuspecting stranger

and that is why sometimes, we are just





This poem is about: 
Our world


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