In the streets of dance the trees seek

tap shoes in the soil– entangled in dandy lion roots.

break them loose with cruets of oil–

slither out like strawberry worms–

on their own turns– flamenco on the crosswalk

tell us to wait– tell us there is rain and

air gaits like canned pudding–

put hair gel to hold up their branches

like punk rockers and mayonnaise–

put back their tap shoes

after forty days and forty afternoons to grow

spring tulips with wonky necks.