The Tragedy at Butterfield

We were dumbstruck. It was as if
someone had picked up dumbness
itself, by its lassoed ankles,
and gave us a swift taste.
We were at Battlefield National
Park. It used to be ‘Butterfield
National Reserve’, but that proved
to be decidedly un-sexy, as far
as names go. We were on a fieldtrip.
The trees were to put on a play
for us; ‘Death of a Salesman’,
if I am not mistaken. Our teacher,
Mr. Lowe, unclasped his brown
attaché case. He proceeded to put
away all of the forest. All he left
behind were the round stumps,
and us. Next, he put away his flat
nose, his exotic eyes and left earlobe.
Gasp. It is not Mr. Lowe at all.
It is his evil twin, Mr. Lowe.