Almost Trees

Another all-nighter

from Phoenix to L.A.,

delivering paper to the

Times. I'm suddenly

exhausted, now that

the rolls have all been

unloaded and stacked

so high. I gaze up at

an entire forest of

trees reduced to their

exploitable essence.

No messy branches

no troublesome roots

no bark to shed

just nice clean paper

carefully weighed,

labeled, rolled up

tight and wrapped

in heavy cardboard

to keep the dirt out,

looming solid, silent

in the Times' dim warehouse.

No birds here

except for one

lonesome pigeon

who's walking around

hunting for crumbs.

I don't belong here either.

I'll be riding

my steel elephant

back to the corral.

I'll bed down tonight

where the cows all

hang out,

dead, skinned, frozen

inside boxes on wheels,

but that's

another story.

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