by Wills Troubadour
On the sixth, a Christmas
tree fell in Old Town Square.
It was 102-feet tall, snatched
from sylvan expanse, transplanted,
bedazzled. It landed
on a British man, 5'9",
taking snapshots,
gulping mulled wine.
He was not quick.
On the seventh, a crane re-
erected the tree. Still,
shutterbugs buzzed, bought
Bohemian glass from vendors
who daydreamt in Czech,
spoke shattered English,
collected Koruny in wintered palms.
Each day after, the tree
wore its greenest party dress
and wanted to timber.
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