Potted Tree

Bought a tree in a pot, took it back to the flat to occupy a nook where sunlight guttered from a lack of air.

A tree in a pot is an odd thing to see. Roots are not meant to resemble a club foot, a wrist without a hand, an unthinking fist. Grotesque the feelers with no way to grow but endless recursion, open, shut — a dead brain in a body automatically fed.

Branches without birds look out at birds without branches. Only the cat on the windowsill seems lonely for whatever all of us once were living for.