Sam lives in a treehouse
he hates it down on the ground.
thinks there's too damn much goin' on
"it's all just a bucket for people to shit in."
is what he thinks.
Like bugs in a hurry
acting like they know something.
denying the truth.
Sam is perfectly happy
alone with some poetry.
He writes lyrics for the birds,
they supply the melody
and the music is fine by him.
He can dance to it.
Sometimes he has to climb down
through the leaves and limbs,
get his feet back on the ground.
Last time, he walked to the fence
gazed at the road below
and shook his head.
By dark, he felt kinda dirty,
had to bathe in the crick,
his boney ass resting on the rocks,
head sticking out of the water,
he looked across the mossy bank
at a deep patch of sky
said, "Damn big bucket!"