I Will Have To Ask My Mother First

how the over-head branches exite me.

they are not the trees my mother once called fat

nor do they hiss and climb a higher plain.

they just stand up high and flaunt their energy;

if I were a lonely soldier

I would marry them at gun-point

and tell my dear mama 

I will be late home for my tea.

how calm they walk

to earth's end and beyond

with legs that grow no bigger

than the measles on my thumb.

but have they hands I wonder?

if I ever dared to touch them

would they die but still remember me?

perhaps they have a mother of their own

or a father lost at sea

all skin and bone!

would they kill me for their supper?

do they hide a million spiders 

all looking for a mate to eat alive?

my mother often said sex has it's price.

she was very kind my mother.

her apple-pies to die for!

now I am old

I will have to bake my own;

but I will have to ask my mother first

where the greenest apples grow.