AVOID THE TREES

By Al Baron

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Young eucalyptus stand along the road.
They’re jerking in the wind,
not beckoning.

“Go take a look,” the man says,
half my age, beside me in a
kiosk line.

I’m only trying not to look 
at all that cluttered dirt, still wet 
with crumpled shadows.

“I don’t believe they’ll bite,” he says,
a raspy laugh, we share a language
placing orders,

Matches, sack of flour, milk.
Our town is small but multilingual,
until last night.

The smoke still hangs around his clothes,
his breath still carries beer,
his fingers blackened.

I didn’t hear this raspy voice
between the shouts and cracks, the night that woke
to empty houses.

Nothing there for me, I say.
He says, “Oh look again,
It’s there for everyone.”

Averting eyes, the shopkeeper
examines both his toes.
I study leaves.

You might see that they’re shaped like claws,
compare their rattling to snakes,
imagine piles,

Sheltered by the trees, collecting beasts
assuming camouflage 
to lie in wait.

Better to imagine horrors
than just to see one thing
forever.

Better say goodbye, politely 
gather up your groceries,
avoid the trees.