The Mango Tree

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Some drupes were turning pale green,
big and a bit ovoid,
some canary yellow,
the bees flying through the leaves,
the garden birds not there,
the children growing up
in dirt-poor
flinging stones
at fat bunches of mangoes,
gorillas, too, at night,
the yellowish flowers plucked,
its leaves cut off.
Far afield were children
all of six or seven
licking the stones,
their shirts and faces
clammy with juice.
The next week,
the tree was felled,
the log dumped anywhere
to moulder,
its roots dug up, a bed
and breakfast being built  on the site.