Thoughts of a Pessimist
I swallow bitter black bean water
looking at the lame, leaning willow.
I wonder: should I set flame to it?
The willow with cracked
and bleeding bark
outstretched its branches to
plead in a mesh of green flurry:
“Save me from being a dog’s piss pot.”
Knowing the disdain of my thoughts,
I gave one last look of pity
before walking my golden retriever home.