Palm

The palm tree my dad was given
from the halfway house where he finally got sober,
that tree rotted, but he didn’t want to see it go.
Today, he’s ready.

He breaks off big branches
so we can fit it out the door.
They crunch and rip.
He removes stones and sea shells
from the base to keep.

We carry it behind the garage,
holding the base sideways until the tree slides out,
all rot and soil and roots.
He picks it up and hurls it into the woods.
Mulch, he says.