Chestnut tree

Leaning against the station wall
pinching a cigarette.

Passers-by
spit “Pariah” in my eye.

I let them.

This is no way to live.

I know it,
but the answer doesn’t show itself
though, Jesus Christ, I try.

My clothes hang wearily.

I gaze through mist
at squabbling gulls
tearing cartons,
check the watch
upon my wrist.

I hate watches,
but it was my dad’s.

I kick the fallen flowers
of the chestnut tree.

Fifty springs
- forty I remember.

Wasn’t I meant to
be something by now?

Why do I envy the chestnut?

What does it have that I lack?

Roots. A home until it dies.

Meaning. Every spring it buds,
launches forth its canopy of leaves,
erections rampant,
all produced to a single end.

No plethora of options,
endless roads to failure,
just a single reason to exist.

To be a chestnut tree.