The Dying Tree

My father retired in his 40’s to
the corner of the couch where
sunlight rarely entered.

The rays filtered violet through the drawn
curtains veering and splitting away in opposite directions as they neared his mass.

And the television said and the television did.

Outside neighbors passed their time watching our lawn turn
brown and the earth beneath it turn hard and calloused.

And the bankers marched.
And the bankers marched, to our door.

And my mother she stared up at her
lemon tree, stark against splashes of
California blue and poppy, she apologized
for how everything went sideways and there was nothing left she could do.

And the dying tree listened.

Her America and my father’s America had crashed headlong.
White picket fences and fruit trees, spikes of roses, ripe red tomatoes mangled
in an unsightly, bloody totem with Chuck Norris and John Wayne and the Six Million Dollar Man.

And the bankers marched.

And the television said.

And the dying tree gave no more.