I miss our sundays at the park by the lake
With the
motherly banyans in more than one place
The
indigenous palms that could bend and not break
And the
ones that had trunks like papiermâché
It would
come unglued when they started to flake
And the
baby manatees that swam there by mistake
Swimming
right up to the sad little shoreline of clay
Considering
their options and then swimming away
Afraid of
the tangled ladies laying in wait
They were
just some old mangroves, and nothing to hate
I miss
these beauties like the leaves and their sway
And the
people who lived there like humorless gods
I don’t
miss them or their shimmering façades
The
towering fortresses that kept us at odds
Purveyors
of solitude, a circle of frauds
They
decided that the trees were obstructing their view
So through
much litigation and reddening hues
They
changed how the word “preservation” was used
The
bulldozers came and made everything new
I hate new
things when the motives aren’t true
So the next
time we have our sundays together
We should
go back to the park where the beauties were gathered
And return
something old to the glistening water
And honor
the ghosts of arboreal mothers
We’ll fly
in the face of the powers unseen
And then
we’ll make love on their big trampoline
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