Peoria, Tazewell, And Woodford: Here, There & Everywhere

Old Pines by Mike Foster





The mast-tall firs

Quail in the rain,

Needles droop, the skeleton shivers

As if a god of the Northlands,

Down and drunk after a thousand-year slide,

Staggered into a State Street mission

For Christmas supper, and they

Deloused him first.


Wotan shakes under the icy needles

His good eye throbs in drunk rage headache

His bones bloom like the great firs of Vinland

While the sisters whisper about the size of that old one there

And mix bug-dust through his clothes.


He wishes then he were a tree in the rain

And the trees, they still wish they were gods.


7 November 2008Foster Farm


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This entry was posted on January 29, 2016 by in Life Experiences, Mike Foster, Poetry and tagged , , .
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