Do not cut me down

from this old oak.

Let me twist ghoulishly

in the eerie light

of these street lights.

Let me rotate slowly

in the gentle breeze of spring.

Let the drivers

come at dawn

to this busy downtown corner.

Let them swerve their cars

and screech their brakes.

Let them glimpse me

long enough

to give them nightmares.

Let the shocked pedestrians,

in the soft morning light,

back away from me

in horror.

Let my mother come

and weep at my feet.

Let me serve a purpose.

Give me this.

This poem was nominated by Slipstream for the Pushcart Prize.