without the branches
to extend.
No perch for a rest.
No bough for baby’s nest.

His limbs are gnarly spokes.
that poke out like a witch’s crippled
finger pointing to the south.
He’s ashen and he’s barren as

an old lady’s womb. He’s excavated
and sunken as an ancient mummy’s
tomb. He’s better off taken
down and used for firewood.