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by Jennifer Wren Call

Every tree deserves
a pair of shoes
nailed to its trunk—
for balance,
for burden,
for walking nowhere fast.

The 8-penny nails
did not ask permission.
They drove truth deep
into bark and bone,
binding shoe to consequence.

This wasn’t decoration.
This was
the crucifixion of deviation.
Dirty souls, nailed in disgrace.

Pontius, in steel-toed sandals,
led the brigade—
Shoe Police.
Citation:
Excessive individuality in a shared space.

The crime?
This tree leaned too hard
into feeding others.
Stood too confidently.
Shaded some
from the sun.

Now it stands,
silent and shamed,
an altar of indifference.
Fashioned
into notice.