Mostly, This Poem is Not About Autumn
by Mike Ambrose



It seemed out of place,
like it had been bused in
from some chauffeured suburb.
A lone birch tree reflecting
late season color
in the still portion
of an October-stained lake,
contrasting against a stand
of taller, darker pines.
I even noticed a grape vine
winding up the white & black bark,
slowly strangling
any chance for upward mobility.

It reminded me of when I was a boy,
being bused across town as part
of some sort of social experiment.
I got beat up every day
and didn’t know what
good could ever come
from getting punched
in the face just because
I was planted there.






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