A fig tree grows
in a back yard in West Seattle.
The splayed waxy leaves span the air.

A few green unripe figs are developing.
Hard to spot,
but there none the less
If we do have sun,
the fruit will ripen to a dark shoe polish brown.

Let's assume
birds do not pluck at the figs,
saving the crunchy seeds for us
to savor
and worry our tongue
some lazy afternoon.

God has pity on kindergarten children,
He pities school children -- less.
But adults he pities not at all.

He abandons them,
And sometimes they have to crawl on all fours
In the scorching sand
To reach the dressing station,
Streaming with blood.

But perhaps
He will have pity on those who love truly
And take care of them
And shade them
Like a tree over the sleeper on the public bench.

Perhaps even we will spend on them
Our last pennies of kindness
Inherited from mother,

So that their own happiness will protect us
Now and on other days.

After you left me
I let a dog smell at
My chest and my belly. It will fill its nose
And set out to find you.

I hope it will tear the
Testicles of your lover and bite off his *****
Or at least
Will bring me your stockings between his teeth.