this is a brief poem to the trees
that grow in parking lots

this is the scenery-- the asphlat
& the two girls dropping plastic coffee
cups in the over-flowing trashcan.
the table behind the shops is where
i sat to read. i told myself aloud
that this, in the ground scheme of
things, was relatively beautiful. 
three different people asked me if
this was the back door to Starbucks,
i nodded. i noticed that the tree that
grow in the parking lot stand two by
two by two, like noah's ark or something.
there's eight in this lot alone, each 
pair halo-ed by cement fences-- reddish 
mulch on top. i wonder how deep 
the soil goes-- if their knees bump
against the hardened stone surrounding them,
like when parents sit at pre-schooler chairs.
i hope they have imaginations. maybe
at night when the only car is the white
security van with the blinking orange-yellow
light, they tell stories about where they're 
going to plant themselves when they grow up.
i'm thinking of my friends & me on merry-go-round 
at the park, laying on our backs & i said
i was going to australia to be a farmer 
& another said they were going to new york 
city to be an actress & another said they 
were going to the czech republic & that they
could tell us how to say chocolate milk in czech.
maybe they have smaller aspirations to live
in the waterworks park up the street where 
they could take big breaths free of back door
grease & car engine. a boy heading into 
Starbucks dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk
& stamped it with his foot before
rushing inside. its guts smoldered & scattered
by a breeze. i come back at night with a shovel,
one tree at a time; digging them up by the roots
& trying to fit them in the back seat of
my car. i have no where to put them, of course.
this wasn't well thought out, as are most
acts of heroism. i ask if they can duck their heads,
all eight of them, if maybe one can curl up
in the trunk. they rub my back & thank me
for trying, they tell me that they do in fact
have each other. pairing off, they take turns
weeping, holding each other. there's dirt strewn 
all across my back seat. i spend the night.
there's now one driving the security struck
with the yellow-orange light-- it's just a phantom
car, making it's rounds. this is a poem 
for the trees that grow in parking lots. i will
come back for you one day. i'll come with
stronger arms & a taller car ceiling.
 write to me if i move away, or send me a handful 
of leave, i'll know.