Paper

Is there still a tree in you,
anonymous white rectangle?
Were you once brown
with roots and leaves
and ants and squirrels
living inside you?
Hard to believe.

Hard to believe
anyone lives inside you now
unless I draw them:
poor imitations of a life
once lived in a field perhaps,
or in the front yard
of a small white house
surrounded by a picket fence
also constructed
from the shattered remains
of your ancestors.