Oak Canoe

I thought this drink
would taste a bit more like cider

But who am I to complain
about gluttonous freebies.

Earlier I considered the extent
of words in all of the books in existence:

Overwhelmed that such depth and
care had been taken to fill innumerable pages

that I will likely never read.
But then again, who really knows?

When I’m old and my eyebrows are
monstrous and silver, I may finally pick up

That long(,) irrelevant novel and
suck the literary sap though thick glasses.

It would make me feel still and
old, gnarled and outstretched,

like the far reaching angel wings
of an oak tree in south carolina that,

unfortunately, did not foresee human
development encroaching on its roots

as a little acorn, quietly dropping
into the dirt 400 years before.

Why the acorn did not know this,
I cannot say – well, maybe I can say.

Probably because its a tree, stupid.
Trees become canoes, they do not make them.

Now its eight o’clock and I’m
being chased out the doors by a broom,

of the verbal sort. Swept into the street
that’s smelling of burgers and beer.

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