an old poem salvaged, as it were.

a tree grows on the corner

of the avenue where we first kissed

& the street where we first loved,

in that city who is a person.

it grows and grows, 

unnoticed by

the passers-by

moving to hide 

from passing-on

(they don't notice each other either),

it feels choked by the sidewalk.

it decides to break through.

it's not about being noticed,

it's about being happy in it's own way.

and so the cement,

readytocrackfrombeingaboveabreathingisland,

bursts at it's beckon.

the tree grows and grows

and the roots grow though.

now when we walk by

will we trip