Chain

The stench will bring tears to your eyes
When the surgeon chainsaws open
The violet-black-green
Of the ruined tree.

He will gut the rotting belly
And hack off a few sickened branches.
He will shake his head, rub his chin,
Surrendering to your mess.
He will say you need a specialist.
He will send a bill,
Tell others what he witnessed in your yard
But you will never hear from him
Or anyone
Again.
And nothing will grow for miles.