CHESTNUT

The soldiers woke us at 5 a.m.,
a bullhorn announcing we had
an hour to pack our belongings
& leave.  200 years we’ve lived
in this glade, subsisting on cow’s milk
& white rice, Sundays, sittin’
on the porch, pickin’ & a-grinnin’
as the old song says.  I left a note
for those who will replace us:
God damn you all! (& please
fertilize twice a year the chestnut tree
out back, the last of its kind.)