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Song of the Retail Park Tree
All day, the sun umbrellas outside Caffe Nero
mimic me. I am brought
en masse from a gardening supply store
in the Midlands and will be paid for
in 36 easy instalments. My watering shedule
is outlined in the staff handbook. My roots
do not go deep. Somewhere, in an office in the city,
there is a version of me
in blueprint. Here, a gull harvests
french fires from a McDonalds carton
on the pavement in front of me
and cries. Nobody will ever carve a heart
into my truck, my bark. No one will ever
pick fruit from me, in this, in any weather.
All day, that awning outside Subway flutters
its eyelashes at me. I am background,
atmosphere. I am freezing
my tits off. The kid who plays
peek-a-boo behind me
is called off by his mother towards
Iceland. Somewhere, in an office in the city,
a slightly greener version of me
flickers on a screen. Sometimes,
the wind runs a hand through my hair, but mostly
tired people sit on the bench in front of me
and smoke. I shade
no lovers. No birds will ever build
a nest in me. Nobody will ever call me home.
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