I have a stick though my head.

This makes me a tree.

Wikipedia says so.

There are bugs with six legs

chewing through the veins in my leaves.

Leaves on my stick make the stick

a branch.

But I might not be a tree,

despite what Wikipedia says.

I lack roots and bark.

If soil outside my house

begins to soften, I might dig my feet

into the ground and dedicate myself

to being a real tree.

One day, broken baseball bats

will make me cry because those

are dead friends. And I will

provide a place to children to make tire swings,

and a house for birds, I won't charge rent.

Since it's not nice to be by yourself,

my branches will bend and shake, 

inviting teenage couples to come

and kiss under my shade. A blonde boy

will close his eyes and make curl his lips,

trying to kiss around a big nose or braces.

If I plant myself 

in front of a window, 

it would be nice for a mom

to place potted plants

on the sill. They won't die, though,

even if my bulk blocks the geraniums

from the sun.