Screwdriver

You offer up your respects

But your respects are as hollow as the tree on the hill

The etched markings of love of fleeting adolescence

On its trunk

That which can be stripped away

With three thrusts of the screwdriver

Effortless and fickle

But a mark remains

Hideously beautiful mark

Or is it I?

This screwdriver, buried so many times

Scars so deep that I must forever mistrust

A courteous whim from fellow man?

Am I at fault as I watch the field trip

Line up under stars

One Aristotle

The other Plato

I in between

The host laughing

Lacing a word ‘round an unwavering stance

The contrarian

The complex

Does it merely sag behind

Excess weight all along