Platt Fields.

By the lake I sit next to little Tree,
it's arms crossed and shaking in a Winter breeze.
One man keeps eyes focused and walks
across the path. Scares the geese when he
stops at the same point
as yesterday
.
Three point turn, drive home.

I imitate little Tree by crossing my arms in a
cracking,
twisted
stretch.
A sigh of peaceful submission as the
leaves flee. Revealing dirty fingernails.
I know i'm frail.
The worthless scabs sail on the lake and pretend
to melt.
Oh how I scream when the pens inhale on
my naked skeleton. Until, desperate,
my riga mortis ends and I
claw with muddy wet roots to the lake.
Geese cry at the disruption, but I am just bone
and lipless smiles.
The lake with blue and green Algae,
my fear and laziness. Sunk.

The geese run past, to little Tree,
pecking at the ground, tending the grave.