Trees know their feet
when melty black licorice
runs beneath.
Folk, however,
run with fewer prunes
and those who do,
who simper
with sugar-yellowed teeth
at taffy toe sludge,
garner backward glances
from the marble legs
of still-bodied statues,
which stand stately in their robes
mostly unnoticed by all
but the nosiest shrubs
as limbs wrench the heavy
and goad the dark to flow,
enticing tongues
to slick a smooth exit,
coat negligence
with an impractical veneer
to cover the cracks in their lips.
Because buckets and hoses,
though loaded,
budget only so much outcry
for the waning ecstasy
against their tar-heart
tap-water cavities,
and refusal to remove
their shoes at the door.
