I’ve got more fingers
than there’s farms,
more toes than there are
wooded hills.

Long gone are
the yellow forsythia,
the cottonwood trees,
the picnic benches.

Many are the
reasons there’s
only new graveyards
not old ones:

money, bulldozers,
politicians, and what
the hell do with all
this garbage.

And, sure
there’s still a pond or two,
brown as the muck
they dump in them.

They chopped down the forest
to put up a Mental Hospital.
After all,
why stop at one lobotomy