Both Hands On It

I didn't know it was the last time

when it was.

That's the whole problem.

There's no announcement—

no moment where you look down

through the branches and think:

this is it, the last one.

Sunday I put both hands on the lowest branch

of an oak in the park,

chest height, rough bark,

my weight leaning in—

feet still on the ground.

A woman came around the path with a stroller.

I let go.

The branch kept moving for a second

after my hands came off.

I looked at my palms:

bark dust, a faint red line

from the edge of the wood.

I don't know what year the last time was.

Twelve, maybe. Maybe older.

There was probably a specific tree—

I can almost name the yard.

The branch went still.

I wiped my hands on my jeans

and kept walking

like I had somewhere to be.