I drive past this place
Where an old tire swing used to sway
It hung from a massive oak tree
That had — without a doubt
Seen more years than any human
But that old oak tree is long gone
And the landscape it used to loom over
Has been ever changed by suburban mansions
And the skeletons of ritzy homes soon to be
It feels as though this place
Has lost its whimsical touch
As — in a way, it feels that I too —
Have lost a certain enthusiasm
That blossoms in youth
And dwindles with adulthood
Oh how
I long for the days
Of an old oak tree
With a swaying tire swing
But they’ve been laid to rest
By suburban dreams
A synthetic world
Of shaping trees
And perfect yards
Of lawns so green
But alas
No oak trees
No tire swings
