Humidity

The lady at the shop swore this fern was a tank,

That it loved the dark and the air that was dank.

So I put it by the tub where the steam always stays,

And watched it turn gray in a matter of days.

It’s a skeleton now, a brittle, brown heap,

Dropping its needles while I’m trying to sleep.

It should be green in this thick, wet heat,

But it’s crisp as a leaf on a winter street.