Soil

Across thick tableau the gray trees stood,
Arthritic spines carved in scars and
Blue-green canopies into
Filthy question marks.

Holding close the cold bodies and nests,
Designed of fallen pieces, with skills born to ancient brains
While the roots grabbed and spun, eating earth,
Squeezing water through arms painted in scape and bacterium.

The seeds fell, the petals sank, the wind with it's tongue in everything.

The man stood above them wearing anti-suit,
Whitened teeth auto-dialing his wife to electro-disappoint his kids.

Telling them he couldn't make it home,
Blaming it on traffic when all he wanted
Was one lousy handjob
From the shorter of the two masseuses.