There is an old tree on Macmillan Road,

weathered and drawn, silent witness to the lives that

walk, rode, ride, drive by, witness to me, my small life.

He is the king of the road, the minister of Macmillan Road.

A man breaks through the circle, comes to him,

awake, and and the old tree sighs and moans.

He has seen this man before, and before.

This other life is not for him, not for us.