The trees stand
at attention to receive a
procession of
telephone poles,

Which are themselves
strung along like
a chain gang, or
siblings holding hands.

The trees maintain a
respectful distance,
not daring to cross
the grassy median
that comes between.

The poles walk on
a little longer, waiting
for a glimpse of
the sun.

your arms were
too short
to reach, so I
lifted you up

and you pinched
those blue-black orbs,
juice smearing
your fingers and
your striped shirt,

the stains of which
would fade
to gray
after a few washes
but not leave
completely