“I can’t tell if the old tree is dying or tired,”
the man says on his phone; I eavesdrop,
a bad habit that led me to writing. 

Our cars are cheek-to-cheek. I’m awaiting 
medicine, the pills that pull me together
somewhat–a luxury without insurance. 

I dream of a tree laying itself low, its limbs
mounting soil over trunk: a bed of itself. 
Wouldn’t it be nice, letting gravity alone?

I cannot picture anything in my mind’s eye. 
I cannot lift my leg, cannot go too far, dragging.
I claim the parts of myself no one else wants.