I.
There we were again in the same spot as usual. Another weeknight,
parked out of the spotlight glow of the street lamps.
Sitting in that silver car;
making our own sparks
that brighten up our interior.
Blowing clouds of smoke at the stained windshield.
I sit and wonder.
Time passes (as it tends to do)
with smoke gathering in the car as if it is a warm fog
coming in off some coast,
but it is not our coast.
This isn’t a fresh, cooling fog,
nor is it something to keep the warmth in--like a thick, gray quilt.
The fog is making the sparks more illuminated,
but only within the confines of the vehicle.
And maybe,
just maybe, t
he fog was clouding our minds.
My company rolled down his window.
It seems like a jet stream has cleared
the fog away.
Where were the Weathermen when you needed them?
Now all that is left
is the glowing ember of his stoge.
Now that my sight was clear,
I could see through the window.
A block away,
right in the center of my sight was a
lone
tree.
Stuck in a rock and concrete prison,
not unlike prisons we have all made
for ourselves.
This tree,
this poor bastard is stuck.
II.
Don’t forget the tree. That damned thing sits there every day, not moving. It can’t move. Where would it go if it could? Far away from these cars, I bet. Surrounded by fake rocks, concrete, and asphalt. That tree has to desire a good stretch, let those roots and branches do their thing. Instead, the poor bastard sits like an inmate on death row-- living in solitude. At least the inmate has an end in sight. Maybe the tree feels solace in the idea that once it meets its demise, so will all the structures around it.
