over my shoulder
when I notice local news.
There's another smattering
of spider plant clippings
on the sidewalk
adjacent to the lot
where I park my ten-year-old truck
every day.
I've given away
two batches of them
to friends in search of life
neatly plucked
from the water-filled mason jars
where I housed them
in my kitchen's abundant sunlight.
My boots are heavy
but I descend three flights
since I won't sleep knowing
the rain's all that's keeping them alive.
I stand at the sink
rinsing the dirt from their long, striped leaves
and wonder if this is how my mother
acquired the ones she had when I was young.
The jars are filled with water again
and I place each plant in its own
separate receptacle, back on the rack
where the sun will land tomorrow
while I'm an hour south
earning a wage to fund my operation.
"They clean the air,"
a friend told me once
withholding the blatantly obvious--
a distant critic who's never wrong
regardless and begrudgingly.
I light my second smoke of the night
after pouring another G'n'T
pondering the identity
of the scoundrel who'd desecrate
one of God's creations
by tossing bits and pieces
to a dirty curb.
Hypocrisy's for rookies.
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