I Used to Feel Bad for the Fig Tree

I USED TO FEEL BAD FOR THE FIG TREE

One Summer morning, sudden 

as the thick slick of pollen

on a black truck's hood, 

searching for a bit of shade 

he may sit beneath your branches. 

Redemption being hungry work, it’s

not unlikely he proceeds

to reach for more than shade,

for something with a little meat 

on it, and, it being late 

Summer, can we deem this

a far-fetched expectation? Now is

not, you understand—as the man

demands a fig—the time

to commence the slow work

of fertilization.