This makes me a tree.
Wikipedia says so.
There are bugs with six legs
chewing through the veins in my leaves.
Leaves on my stick make the stick
But I might not be a tree,
despite what Wikipedia says.
I lack roots and bark.
If soil outside my house
begins to soften, I might dig my feet
into the ground and dedicate myself
to being a real tree.
One day, broken baseball bats
will make me cry because those
are dead friends. And I will
provide a place to children to make tire swings,
and a house for birds, I won't charge rent.
Since it's not nice to be by yourself,
my branches will bend and shake,
inviting teenage couples to come
and kiss under my shade. A blonde boy
will close his eyes and curl his lips,
trying to kiss around a big nose or braces.
If I plant myself
in front of a window,
it would be nice for a mom
to place potted plants
on the sill. They won't die, though,
even if my bulk blocks the geraniums
from the sun.