the laurel tree

tonight i switch on my computer
and crawl to the tree
so that i may forget.

forget the fine threads of fear
running loose from the spool
of cobwebs in my head.

forget its sticky silvery floss
cleaving to my skin, spun
as if by an eight-legged seamstress bent
on clothing me in reams
of elastic gossamer it so fervently spat
out in my cerebral attic with
no body to dress.

as if bored with heaping
up the wasted material on the floor
of its lair, it threw
one end out the window,
exited my ear and
gowned me in its creation.

so i switch on my computer and
stumble
to my tree and let
the seamstress go
free.

she dresses every insect.

i water the tree.

and i do, indeed, forget.
as we wait for the tree
to grow tall and big.

because, you see, my mind is
a spider,
and
it
needs
to roam free.

potato boy felt out of place in sugar town
until someone sprinkled icing over him
blending him right in
among snowy looking croissants.

and this misshapen confection
this blob in a bluff
is my very best friend,
because he understands
what it’s like to be different from everyone else
underneath.