of truth to light; a plant
can become a corpse.
There lay Charlie Tree,
a Norfolk Island Pine
older than me and raised indoors,
mom told him daily she
loved him, told him
he was a beautiful tree.
Still gave him up.
Dad dumped him
under the backyard hedge
of his bachelor pad,
a new duplex
with sliding glass patio doors
for easy viewing.
We watched him,
being dead out there,
thinking about why
custody is called a battle.
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