A new poem
sits at my door
like my Christmas tree.
Naked.
It’s branches
drooping from being cooped up
in the heat of the house for the past three weeks.
Stripped of its ornaments and lights.
Now, alone,
out on my front porch
like a dog
sentenced
to it’s room
without ever knowing what offense
it has committed.
I sit
inside,
a greedy urchin,
watching the tree
that gave its life for my merriment,
still wanting more.
What now
little one?
Now that Christmas has passed
and the New Year has been ushered in?
What will you become?
Mulch beneath our feet
at Radnor Park.
Your perfume
wafting through our noses,
still giving
of yourself
even
in
death.
death.
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