Shade

In the run down house lived a man

whose garden grew flowers of red.

The garden had no trees,

just as the rest of southern Arizona.

This place was his ‘hood,

the place where

he felt he was somewhere.

Down the street lived another man

whose yard was filled with cars, their hoods

open revealing engines of blue and red,

barely rusting in the sun of Arizona,

unprotected by the shade of a tree.

With an extreme lack of trees

a Yankee like me longed to be where

there was cooling shade, unlike southern Arizona.

I didn’t want to be a man

whose skin was leathery and red.

I didn’t want this place to be my ‘hood.

I finished the repairs to my car, slammed down the hood.

I was now ready for my trip to see the trees.

It was an old car, a faded and dusty red

but it would get me to where

I wouldn’t become those leathery old men,

baking away in the heat of Arizona.

I took to the highway, headed out of Arizona,

but soon there was steam billowing from the car’s hood.

I became an angry man,

for I was now delayed in seeing those trees.

Here I was, stuck in the middle of nowhere,

with the summer sun burning my skin red.

I was angry enough to see red,

for I just wanted to leave Arizona.

Now I needed to find somewhere

that could fix the problems under my hood

so that I continue my search for the shade of trees

and not become one of those leathery old men.

Then along came one of those men, leathery and red,

and drove me to a place with trees, in southern Arizona.

It was a park in my neighborhood, and I knew I didn’t have to go anywhere.