Other Fish in the Sea Alex Rosa-Figueroa You aren’t that great, you great stretchy forest, With your oak as solid as your sensibilities And flower’d foliage steep’d in “beauty.” Your lofty peaks aren’t even all that impressive. (I’ve seen bigger.) I don’t see why everyone worships you so much. Books upon books upon books, Thousands of meter’d gospels in testament to your glory, Pews of doting lovers. Like you even cared, you’re just a forest. I, for one, refuse to be another spurned disciple. You can have the rest, o stretchy one. Your followers buy you better things, anyway. Maybe this time your branches will suspend suitors. Or something. “I might perchance have yet been thine,” As they say. Maybe in some lifetime. Or not.
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