I have no trees for you.
I sold the last one
Three days ago to a man
Who wanted one for a party,
Pool side. I could tell
From the way he loaded it
The tree would not last, would end
As a conversation piece for one night,
And in a week wither at that pool side,
The pleasantries of its myriad leaves
Hardening and bracing themselves coldly
For the appetite of gravity. I would
Have rather sold it to you.
You look like a man who knows
How to treat a tree. You
Could find it a comfortable spot,
Know the balance between shade and conversation.
You seem to be a man who understands
How to properly mix nutrients, who has
And eye for the qualitative and not simply
The quantitative alone. Yes, I would have liked
To have sold that last domesticated tree to you. The fellow
Who got it I suspect has no love of trees, only
Of effects. His brutish ways
Are not what any of us need in these days
Of high demand and low supply.
But the man was here before you,
And in the long story of it, this is a functioning business:
All will be served, starting with the first in line.
I can imagine that unfortunate tree soon
Curved earthward like the man himself: that very afternoon
The man hunched over in an easy chair
With too many broken springs, a lemonade
Balanced on his thinly coated belly;
The tree, outside, just past the clear
Patio window, ablaze with thirst
And neglect and suffering like a bin
Of feed corn in the hands of ill tempered harvesters.
My joy is not simply in the cash register.
There is an abiding way with these things
Which grows roots into a trainable part of the human heart.
I might have another tree at the first of next month.
I can see you would be good
For a tree. I imagine the branches filled with
Chattering leaves and covens of water, the air rattling along
The chiseled chromosomes in each vein and stem.
That would be an extraordinarily lucky tree.
Cash or credit, come back then.