It’s Monday, 9 a.m., springtime,
and the cherry tree is sneezing
finches, gold ones, out back in spasms.
At the centre of its own storm, it levels, rallies,
repeats with finches shuffled,
all still gold as OJ rearranged in its carton.
If today were a movie and the tree a tubercular
heroine, things wouldn’t look good. I call in sick.
Blowing off work due to a personal gale,
a.k.a. allergies, is the subtext
of what I fess to the machine. A wayward bit of air
what-not-to-wears through a tear in my screen.
I fluff my bathrobe, touch the panic button on my remote.
On TV, a bearded lady is getting a fantasy makeover
to resolve her image problem. Each barb
causes a little achoo when removed with a gun.
I press a tissue to my blowhole and gust
my robe right open. Facial hair must change
one’s experience of breeze—wave action on the jawline,
DNA strewn and gathered as cumulus in birds’ nests,
the scrubbie of yourself against you always, scrubbing.
But soon this episode will be over. I’ll get a call back
from my boss. There’ll be a power cut, in darkness
we’ll hear trees torn out by their roots.
