01/02/2014 02:58 pm ET Updated Mar 04, 2014

The Family Favorite

sprawled on the street,
a January corpse,
abandoned like a thought.
Just days ago
this wan carcass that now lies stiff and bloodless face down in gutter soup
was the family favorite,
so gaily dressed and full of light
Oh how we danced and sang, softly brushing against you
Your heady scent
flying above our heads
like drowsy butterflies
You were barely alive when they first brought you home.
So we fed you
and brought you water
as the snow
swirled quietly,
madly at times,
like parade confetti
in the happiest moonlight.
Father said nothing was more beautiful than you.
And yet one day, it was suddenly decided
that everyone simply had enough of you.
You took up too much space.
You were making a mess.
You were too much work..
You were in the way.
You were no longer wanted.
You were no longer loved.
So out you went,
unlike the way you came in,
so celebrated and adored.
We simply rearranged the furniture and each one of us got on with our lives.
And now there you lie,
beneath a cruel clawed wind,
a symbol of nothing,
waiting to be hauled away
by the City of New York.
I can see you down below,
through my one window to the world
as if you fell,
as if you were pushed,
lit by the crackling light
of a neon red Budweiser sign.
And as a stray dog sniffs you
and people sail by like tugboats
expelling puffs of white vapor from nostrils and mouths,
my heart is suddenly seized by the faint, sad echo of song and good cheer
and I wonder:
Will anyone ever speak of you?
Will anyone ever remember
this family favorite?
Will anyone ever remember this Christmas tree?