Sumacs of York County

Some people want to leave this world, entirely. 
Some just need to leave town, go to some burnt-out place 
and taste the sour sweat of it, same as theirs. 
The only way to tell if the sumac is ripe is to lick it,
but not after a rain, you won’t find the acid your tongue needs to stay awake
until the sun’s been out at least three days. 
I’ve sat in the shelter of every sumac in York County and here’s what I found;
They don’t need a thing from you, 
except the stand behind the firehouse - an ex-voto to the fire gods - will accept the occasional sacrifice
and the patch beside the parish where they smoke their cigarettes, will 
drink your prayers like wine. 
Sitting in the sumacs of parking lots will get you pissed on, and vacant lots,
abandoned places, are for fellowship in hard times 
when we’re all waiting for the price of scrap to go up 
only go when you’re prepared to see us at our worst - and you never are. 
There’s always birds, though, picking grubs, I think, more than fruit
Worm-eating warblers all summer, chickadees in snow, once, in the fall, a wild turkey 
who scared himself off when he broke the brittle branch. 
In March, the first robins always land in the one outside my kitchen window like mercy. 
The ones by the farm fields are best - to sit in their singing shade 
and shuck a few ears of wormy corn with my grubby hands and 
say whatever I want - the farmer is deaf from the tractor.