Concrete Teeth

The night shift lets out into a world of gray,

where the streetlights hum a low, electric tune.

I saw it by the dumpster, blocking the way,

a sprig of nightshade beneath a bruised moon.

It didn't ask for a garden or a hose.

It found a jagged lip in the asphalt floor

and forced itself upward, as if it chose

to bite through the stone and ask for more.

A green stem fueled by grit and rainy oil,

splitting the pavement with a slow, quiet force.

It makes a mockery of the lack of soil,

staying true to its own stubborn, wild course.

I stood there with my keys tight in my fist,

glad for anything that refuses to desist.