When we were a we at all,
full of faces who no longer have names in my memory,
we broke through a chain link fence to throw empty gallon jugs at highway traffic.
Behind us stood an old and gnarled tree,
and every time I re-read Waiting For Godot,
it’s all I can see,
that knobbed hillside,
that twisted oak,
and miles upon miles of trash cast out
by car after car on their way through.
I still remember that tree,
so I guess there’s no excuse for why I don’t remember you.
