Christmas Tree Lots

Christmas trees lined like war refugees,

a fallen army made to stand in their greens.

Cut down at the foot, on their last leg,

they pull themselves up, arms raised.

We drop them like wood;

tied, they are driven through the streets,

dragged through the door, cornered

in a room, given a single blanket,

only water to drink, surrounded by joy.

Forced to wear a gaudy gold star,

to surrender their pride,

they do their best to look alive.