Ratty old spruce

As you arrive at the foot of our cottage steps
(Hopefully bearing an awesome arrray of goodies)
Your way is arrested at least temporarily
By a ratty old spruce that stands crowding the stairs
Like an indigent old panhandler hustling for change.
You can’t get by without wrestling with it.
Don’t try to avert your eyes: it’s in your face;
It won’t go away. It was planted there for us
By a Mohawk neighbour who thought a pair
Of trees flanking the front door would give
The place some class. Fortunately, one died.
When it was a young indigent panhandler,
I couldn’t rip it out or call the cops because
I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Now he
Never comes by, spends his time sitting in
A nursing home, spinning exciting yarns for the
Unexcitable. I wish I could tear it out,
Cut it down, call the cops, but I can’t.
It’s our ratty old spruce.