Poor Mailman

Where I grew up,

Trees did, too.

I lived in a treehouse neighborhood

Held together with Elmer’s glue.

Nobody got along

With each other

I lived in a different tree

Than my own mother.

The poor mailman climbed

Six days a week

To give us mail “texts” from neighbors

Because we’d never speak.

But one day in a dry Fall season

The ironwood tree couple climbed tree to tree;

‘Arson’ was their reason.

“We’re afraid of arson moving to another house!”

They were panicked.

‘Another house’?

Now was manic.

This did not bode well for my abode

It seemed it had happened before!

“Well, don’t bring your arson here, too!” I yelled,

And slammed and locked the door.

The neighborhood met that night

And we threw away all our matches

Because having those now was not right.

We agreed we wouldn’t use our treehouse stoves

And disposed our candles

For we couldn’t use those.

We had become friends,

As people with the same enemy

Do tend.

The Ironwoods came late.

They were happy, bright.

Said they’d talked with their child;

Said he’d been polite.

“We are okay with his choice.

“What?!” the Yews asked.

“With felony?!” I voiced.

The Ironwoods were confused

Then laughed–even giggled!

“You misheard our news–

Earlier our child was amiss.

He’s engaged to a girl

who doesn’t live in a tree like this.

But he’s independent now, says

He will survive fine…

We were afraid our son would move houses!

But now we’ve changed our minds!”


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