The bus is late again

The bus is late again,

and I’m staring at the steel teeth of the grate

where the city breathes its hot, metallic breath.

There’s a tomato plant down there,

hooked into a crack between the concrete

and a flattened pack of menthols.

It’s got one yellow flower,

dusted in a fine, black silt

like it’s been working a double shift

at the foundry.

I wonder who told it this was a garden.

I wonder who told me

I could make a living out of thin air.