Letter to Chicago

You can learn a lot about a place

By its trees. They've got two kinds here,

Palm and eucalyptus, or just about.

It never occurred to me there could be

Anything beautiful about palm trees -

But their leaves are reflective enough

To shimmer attractively backlit by the moon -

It's a little like moonlight on the waves,

Or perhaps a surfaced schoool of fish -

I haven't seen that yet. But basically

Palm trees go straight up high, do something

Basic and ugly and shaggy (I haven't

Bothered to look closely), then have leaves.

The eucalyptus trees though - by day

Their trunks are dappled gray, their leaves

Deep green with the rare choice of cardinal red,

And by moonlight each looks like

The skeleton of a woman who was too thin

To be entirely beautiful, naked except for

Dark hair which blends with the sky,

One hand holding a smoky cigarette,

One a drink not to her taste - whatever

She or the man who poured it thought

People were drinking those days -

Another holding flowers or, absurdly, a fan -

And she's leaning slightly towards someone,

Talking excitedly, effortlessly tall.

The eucalyptus seem to get that high

Because they want to try out all the poses

Possible with a slender trunk and branches.

The palms want no fantasy, no extras -

Plumb-straight thick armored trunk, shag, and leaves,

They're that high so the competition won't bother.

My childhood reminds me to say,

Either way, rotten trees for climbing.

Well, at least that's how things are right here.