Listen, there is a money tree.
I know you don't believe me,
and I didn't when Bill told me
that his mate Joe's brother
waters it every day.
It's not just water - there's sweat
and blood mixed in, not so's
you'd notice, Joe's brother says,
and he should know because
he mixes it himself.
There's another works with him,
another money-gardener
and they hate each other,
watch each other like dogs -
that's part of the job.
The tree is in a courtyard
surrounded by blank walls
with slits for rifles,
and a ceiling of perspex
that can slide open.
Where is this courtyard?
Joe's brother doesn't know.
Every morning he has to go
to a rooftop in the city
where a copter lands.
They put on a blindfold
and no one speaks. They whirr
Joe's brother somewhere
in the city, he can't say.
It's best he can't.
Why is there only one tree?
That's what I want to know.
You'd think they'd grow
plantations of the stuff.
Joe's brother laughs.
He sees the look
on the faces that come
every weekday at noon
to collect the picked leaves.
They wouldn't share.
If you still don't believe me
come here and we'll go
see Bill, and then Joe
and then his brother,
and ask him yourself.
- Matthew Sweeney
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