“Doc” Baumann
No architects or bankers grace our block;
just tradesmen, office clerks, a nurse or two,
a teacher, mailman, meter maid, mechanic,
scores of housewives. Not a single doc.
That is, unless you count the Baumann crew
Fred Kramer called this morning in a panic
because a lightning bolt crevassed our tree,
crushing his brand-new Buick Century.
Tree Surgeon says the sign on Baumann’s door;
so, armed with chainsaws, ladders, wedges, ropes,
Doc and the guys excise the sycamore
without the need for clamps or stethoscopes.
One hundred forty rings run round its core—
that’s thirty presidents, eleven popes.
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