I think this poem is bad-ass. I realize not many people read this, but the ones who do I think will be happy to read this.
Its been windy lately, one morning
we found a tree fallen on a PT Cruiser
parked along Indian St.
Branches lay on streets, across power lines,
in my backyard, greyed by dead moss and old rain.
They're scattered there, in my yard, not enough
to cover the grass, just enough to be noticed for a moment
before the landlord scoops them up this weekend.
Like the branches I remember laying sparsely
about a graveyard I wandered through
in the afternoon a few years ago.
I found a headstone, some name I don't remember,
born 1930, died 1933.
This child's parent's must have
been distraught, their minds overwhelmed
back when it happened.
But now, they are buried in the same dirt as him -- or her
I don't remember.
When we saw the Cruiser supporting the fallen tree
with its hideous purple mass, a friend laughingly
commented on the pure justice of God.
I smiled and wondered how there wasn’t more damage.