by Lisa Bren
In cities with paved roads
and sidewalks, the trees
can’t get up and stretch
their legs, they’re caged,
rootbound under an artificial ground,
they wriggle and they squirm
and cause ripples in the walkways,
so that sometimes we trip
when we’re on a mission,
in our flipflops, or crocs, or Birkenstocks,
to get to the poke place before they close
or to the gym so we can get a good sweat in
before we head back home
to binge watch Netflix: maybe
Seinfeld reruns again or, perhaps,
a mini-series based on a true story of trees.
Lisa Bren is a multidisciplinary artist from the Pacific Northwest. Her poems have appeared in The Inflectionist Review, The Meadow, Sugared Water and elsewhere.
Hawaii Pacific Review 