Abstract On Telephone Poles
Been with us ages, will outlast the pine;
Our eyes, like hunter's, search to find their end.
They stand along the roads, converging line,
As far as one can see until they blend.
My eyes, in disbelief, peer at their crown
Where trusses, struts, and bolts and nuts I see
And insulators where the wires tied down
And other kinds of electrical debris.
The poles are pocked with holes from lineman's cleat
And some have spikes for human feet to climb.
They're trees transformed complete with birds replete,
Their barkless trunks ooze creosoted grime.
Upon their boughs a leaf is never seen
But they're more constant than an evergreen.