Logger and The Small

Poem

Photo by Marvin Meyer on Unsplash (edited)

Across the lane
at noon
in dry winter weather,
a man was climbing 
a wilted eucalyptus tree

I shouted:
have no money, I know
didn’t you sell your head for that?

He replied:
just no axe,
it’d break when I climb.

A strange man
gave me a dubious belief
of not me but them
—them of people

A congregation (in no church)
gathered in town’s bewilderment
to see a grown man
jump on a tree

His undisappointing
dissonant spark
of sunlight; of eyes
was believed by the small
on the roads

But see the red handkerchief below;
he bowed from the tree
the small tugging
the older’s hands for coins

So, I killed my belief
—or a chainsaw in my hand—
when he came down
took me to the shop
of food, not hardware.

Read Next: Vindicate (free), Gunshot (paid)

Could you buy me a pen?

Thanks for reading!

All the underlined words are links ;)