Weed

lordly

like a whoremonger

over the brittle

strawgrasses

whose roots’ tendrils share

the strewn boulder bed

trackside

weed

thinks itself

a tree

a pepperpot tree

it might as well

ponder how

it broke through

to open sky

it wasn’t there last week at all

Cut it down to size

show it for the weed it is

remind it whose realm this is

—whose tracks

—whose terraced streets

—whose jobs fill these wagons

A train rolls by prostrate with limbs

of a diseased forest

felled in Wales

and you’d think

a weed could take the hint

© 2013 Slush Poet