Through the Gray

The city takes it all in, eventually.

Spit gum, spilled coffee, a broken nail.

Today, it was a lid, cheap plastic,

from a flat white, pressed into the wet gray,

like an accusation.

But right next to it, pushing up,

a stubborn green. Not a flower,

just a weed, thin as a secret,

cracking the seam of the pavement.

It didn't ask permission.

Didn't care about the tire tracks,

or the oil slick sheen.

Just green, against all that concrete,

sucking something up from somewhere

that felt like nothing.

I stood there, watching it breathe.

The city's unyielding, yes.

But sometimes, it lets a thing

just be. Or maybe it just

doesn't notice.