The Survivor

I was hunting a leak by the shut-off valve,

under the rags that I use for a salve.

I pushed back a bucket of old, hardened paint,

and found a survivor, small and quite quaint.

A cactus in plastic, a deep shade of jade,

living for months in a world of pure shade.

No water, no window, no comfort at all,

just sitting there upright and leaning on the wall.

I reached for the rim and I felt the sharp bite,

a single gray needle that came out of the night.

It drew a red bead on the tip of my skin,

to show me the kind of a shape it was in.