parking lot trees

stuck in their little concrete islands,
they call to each other,
and to their distant cousins,
the freer ones, the ones
in the forest nearby,
perhaps hoping that in the dark of night,
one night,
they might, faerie-like,
sprout feet,
and all tiptoe,
neatly, in a row,
out of their macadam graveyard,
noxious fumes left behind,
and slip into the waiting
coolness of moss-covered,
pine-needle-strewn ground,
to the place where no one
will see them again.

May 15, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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