Bag of dry dates
brown wrinkled stumps
like old man testicles
such a good disguise
for their caramel meat
makes me wonder
why the date palm didn’t dream up
something flashier
millions of years ago
to get the attention of hungry bellies
animal vessels hoisting their seeds
to a waiting patch of earth
do they stand there still
those trees made of spikes
gobs of dates hanging off them like earrings
do they still hope the mice
will climb them
for their sticky flesh
or are they too tired to care
out there in the desert
on the edge of all that oil
with a naked view
of such a long war.