Ironwood Poem by Kirby Wright

Drive too fast and you risk missing everything,
Including the solo ironwood standing majestic

In the parking lot. The ironwood’s long-term,
Isolated, in for the long haul with a view of this

Dying mall. A car moves over the blacktop, searching
For morning coffee. When wheels spin they sometimes

Give the illusion they’re moving backwards, as if
The ghosts in the tires are trying to get back home,

Return to their rubber roots. You can’t move something
Without risking history. Funny how vulnerable a

Car looks when its wheel is missing a hubcap, makes
You consider how easily pieces fall off, hit freeway

Rolling, take another direction, lost. Should we keep
Moving forward with missing parts, ignoring their

Contributions? Replacements seldom match up.
A sign advertises Private Road across the street from

The mall. That path demands a special sticker for your
Bumper: peel backing off, stick on, stuck forever.

Sprinklers shoot orgasms over plants planted on islands
Floating between concrete and asphalt. Man-made islands

Display a heavy-handedness, like the oil company atolls
Off Long Beach coast—they require more than just ocean

To define them as things cut off, surrounded. Coconut trees
In Hawaii have aluminum bands around their bark to

Keep rats honest, prevent them from climbing up and
Enjoying the nuts. Those bands are wedding rings,

The trees in love, palm fronds touching.
The ironwood? Only it knows the meaning of alone.