It was the one that loomed
over the driveway, brooded
every time I drove by,
one side sleek, bark like
pantyhose pulled tight,
as if the tree were saying,
Hi there good-looking,
the other side sprung open,
unbuckled like a corset
undone on a spinster
laid out at a funeral home.

It leaned at the gravel drive
the way girls did at cotillions
when they smoked cigarettes
and looked out at the lake
and moon, talking softly;
the way, before she died,
the old woman stopped
rocking and craned her neck
from her porch when I started
up the hill, home again from work.

Hung out over the driveway
like a pole full of prayer flags,
burden of longing, the place
in the surrounding canopy
where it fell now space
in the dusk for coquettish sun
among the blackberries
and hobblebush, I miss
its nosiness, its desire.