WOULD YOU CARE A FIG?

If you lived in a corner house,
a fig tree by the garden wall
on a street, a block away from the local school?

I’m sure you would, wouldn’t you?

Ten months ago, when I walked down the street,
the fig tree by the wall was not to be seen—
the sun just tumbled into the yard.

The tree now towers over, revealing itself.
Its light green branches strong, and fruitful.
Figs—smug and silent—and ripe,

Adorn the branches like little green ornaments
on Christmas trees, as they hang in silence,
secretive, still, and serene; suppressing excitement,

Unlike some figs that lose control, capitulate,
and gravitate downward, spilling their guts,
bloody pink and burgundy, on concrete.

Would you care to see figs fall,
Cause books to spill from school satchels,
running feet slip and hastily scatter

Over the bridge to the school yard,
before the shrill sound of the electric bell
shatters the morning break? If foolhardy

footsteps flatten fleshy figs on the sidewalk
adjoining your corner home and the school,

You would care a fig—
Wouldn’t you?