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.