An Unwanted Sequel
The dead birch in my backyard is still
there. Last winter,
I wrote a poem about that tree,
but it was a flop,
so instead of using its pale bark
as some sort of metaphor
for my fear of growing old,
I'll admit its naked branches
remind me of tentacles
from a 1950s monster
that at least had the style to stay
and the promise of fire wood
might be our only hope,
while we wait for the credits to roll.
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