The workers feel fatigue,
wiping wood-chipped
sweat from their burning brows.
Yet another day at the site,
building bunkers for Buicks;
yet another parking lot,
once a lot of logs –
standing proud and pined.
Only signed stumps remain.
But the workers continue,
lot by lot, wiping the wood chips –
the tears from the trees
that no longer breathe.
A harvested holocaust
in a world unscathed.
