Rows of Belgian Trees


I see him in the neighbourhood,
Going about his business
With a face carved in granite.

He wears a herringbone coat,
Tweed trousers, and shoes
That nothing could move.

I know without needing to look—
His ample nostrils
Bristle with grey hairs.

His scowl is not meant to offend;
He should be walking home
Past rows of Belgian trees.


©2016 Michael Fraley




Back to Poem-O-Rama