barbara and phil

when a stranger, barefoot, garbed
in beggar rags strolled through the streets
of our city, all the people huddled
in their houses, shuttering their wallets
and windows- all that is- except us,
phil flung -our door- open
wide, told me to take the last eggs
and bake a cake, but when phil
went to shake our guest’s hand he beheld-
senator sanders- his palms purpled-
with the blood of plutocrats- he
marveled at our generosity-asked us
why we would do it-
an elderly couple subsisting-
on thirty bucks a week. he inquired
what we wanted most. phil, his eyes- dining
on mine said, “what i want, sir, you
cannot give- to love-my barbara beyond what
mortality- has allotted.”  the senator shrugged
his shoulders and departed.
                                           that’s when our fiesta
started. wound up like a broken jack in the box,
my hip popped and then- phil’s pacemaker
stopped. his arms a rope-still unslackened-
our eight limbs entwined- gnarled
into branches-our torsos expanded, stretching
to break the ceiling above us. we become
a tree- wider than the girth of a freighter- a tree-
incombustible- unbulldozable- the sequoia
in which birds chirp -the chansons
of lovers’ unyellowing devotion