cherrywood floors

these floors are cherry wood,
the woman
says to me, as I look at her
walls for painting and wallpapering.
she asks me to remove my shoes
and any sharp objects
that might be
in my possession. spit out your
gum she says, putting her open
hand close to my mouth.
I do as I am told.
do you know how many cherry
trees had to be chopped down
in order to make this floor.
no, I tell her.
thirty? forty?
three hundred cherry trees
she says,
that's how many.
an orchard of cherry trees.
do you know what a floor like
this costs,
a floor made out of cherry wood.
no, I say again.
I dunno. a hundred dollars?
pfffft. she says.
multiply that by a thousand.
sometimes we sit on the deck
and stare in to look
at our cherry wood floors.
you can't clean them
with anything but
cherry juice, or spit
from a llama.
how nice, I tell her.
how do you walk on them?
they're everywhere.
we don't, she says. we put
runners down, soft mohair
runners, and we stay in our
socks and bare
feet. how will I be able to do
any work with these floors?
I dunno, she says, but if you
harm them in anyway, ding, dent,
chip or spill paint,
you'll be liable.
my husband's a lawyer.
let me show you to the door.
send me your estimate
and here's your gum back, she says,
unfolding her hand
with my pink wad of gum
stuck to her palm. we look forward
to working with you.