there is an oak tree in the 7-Eleven


there is an oak tree in the 7-Eleven
by louise scoville

wrapped around the fluorescent green sign of the 7-Eleven
a giant oak tree.
her heavy branches protruding through shattered glass windows.
unscratched, her arms reach up towards the sun,
only to bend backwards against the flashing prices of drilled energy
graduated from the dusty kitchen floor that the oak’s feet slide on.

the rounded leaves litter the sand colored tile floor
like a tropical island the vending machine buzzes
to the rhythm of the oak’s tapping foot.
unopened bags of food are thrown on the leaves
like fallen fruit.

within the litter and glass lay green bills adorned with portraits of history’s greatest.
now they lay among the leaves, worthless.
a sketchbook is on the linoleum countertop. an uncapped pen drips ink into a pond of sewage and storm water collecting on the floor.

broken glass falls like snow around the oaks thick bark.
light bulbs crackle in an abundance of fireworks, dropping
sparks. a light panel collapses from the ceiling. electricity drowns the muddy water, igniting the legs of the oak.

the oak’s arms ignite in an eruption of color
the red fire extinguisher case remains unopened.
no sirens wail or car horns cry
all is heard is the crackling wood.

the oak stretches, yearning for air and survival.
a sprinkler pops and water drips from the sealing.
dry branches reach for the water, using it as aid to her burns.
the tiles underneath her feet crack, spitting dust into the air.

she drags her root through the glass window of the entrance,
business is always welcome.

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