Each time I see a Sycamore

Each time I see a      Sycamore

I wonder what the hell it’s for.

It doesn’t even drop its leaves

In season like the other trees.

Nor make I any sense of its

Eternal bark psoriasis.

Among things furnitureal

Its presence is mercurial.

Perhaps its bumpy tumorous wood

Is hard to carve or shape, no good

For rails, panels, spans or dowels

On which might hang miswoven towels.

In columns they line boulevards

And singly found in some backyards

Where graciously their shade provides

Refreshing coolness while it hides

Picnic tables, swings with seats

From the summer’s cruelest heats

Although not well. The maples and the oaks

Shadow with far darker cloaks.

Perhaps one answer I have found

While casting all these thoughts around:

This tree whose wood’s so decorously curly

Supplies unique veneers called burly?

Of all sylvan varieties 

The Sycamores are garbage trees

Because of their relentless droppings:

Seeds, twigs, branches, other ploppings

Too numerous to mention

And on this point there’s no dissension.