Varghese has no home. Stays in his workplace. Jesus’s very own man. Big rosary around his neck. And a matching wooden cross. He gardens around the yard On days of no work. Holds a deep grudge Against the trees around.
Doomed are they the moment His eyes settle on them.
Asked him once whether His rancor was because Jesus was crucified on wood. Or, was it the wheezing that the Acacia trees caused? Or, was it the itchy worms from the soft wood trees? He said time and again ‘Brother, I love the trees More than you love them.’
Have seen many times The birds from the trees Chopped down by Varghese Looking for their nests.
Clearing the bushes along The road to the office was Varghese’s job for the day.
When I went out for a smoke Glowing was he about How the place gleamed.
Midnight, after work, Was driving along the path Shorn clean by Varghese.
In the blaze of the headlight A hare dashed frantically Looking for its bush.