The Tree In The Storm

To whom we serve this bloody dish

while the baby waits for her milky wish

The paint unravels from the brush

The hush of headlines on the bus

 And all indications are quite vague

Tears written on a page

Pretty mouths and untidy drawers

The ancient hole stabbed in the floor

A small town shrine to the rotten fruit

The passageway emptied of its loot

The roots are pulled up from the earth

Is this what we mean by a noble birth?

Is this what we mean, I mumble

As I turn away

And the cries start running

And the tree in the storm he plays...