I place a few plants in a basement window for winter,
in an act of suburban optimism, as if to illustrate
that hope still exists.
Then, in the middle of January, I'll find myself
in an old armchair down there,
my ornery cat, T-bone, on my lap listening
to Talking Heads records.
As he sleeps on my knees, I look
at those plants struggle to survive
on a day or 2 of partial sunlight per week
and think to myself,
What chance have any of us got?, and maybe
sing a bit as the cat's ears twitch slightly,
"I wouldn't live there if you paid me."
The last two years,
in these most inhospitable of conditions,
on a cold shelf next to the electrical box,
a primrose inherited from my grandmother
blooms improbable flowers.
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