I “got my run in” today,
And I happened to pass by on the way
A plaque underneath a tree
Proclaiming to all, “This is a Hackberry”.
(Oh, silly Texans, “y’all”,
You do not know your trees or even the fall).
I laughed in my head.
Hackberrys, you’ve taught to me,
Are meant to be hacked, a useless tree,
But down here, they know not
And cherish the ugly thing, giving it it’s own plot.
The trees down here, the weather’s ruined ’em.
They all look like you’ve come and pruned ’em.
All twisted and crumbly and dead.
They don’t know how to grow
Squash or turnips or radicchio.
Fluorescent fruits fill the stalls
In the farmer’s market, foreign Spanish words call.
Cactus fruit, perish the thought!
What is this seedy thing I just bought?
I am so confused.
The cafeteria’s brussels sprouts, yuck!
Their asparagus, out of season, is muck.
Limply, it dangles, dingy and green,
I turn up my nose at the “green” beans.
It’s crazy down here, Dad, so odd.
The trees are all wrong, the food tastes like sod.
Texas, you have me all bemused.