petals. She grew from the cement, charcoal gray. She watched them all walk over
her each day. Her blossoms and drips of dew, slightly fragrant, yet no one ever
bent over to smell her.
had one sallow green leaf attached to her narrow stem – pale lemon yellow in
curbside next to a bar, bending her tiny petals back and forth in the gentle
wind. She drank drops of whiskey, smoked discarded cigarettes in the whirl of traffic.
always waited for the big black tar tires to drive over her, crushing her tiny
plant skeleton. With enough time, she knows it will happen. She has no chance.
she grows, clinging onto the cement, a few specks of dirt.
familiar feel of the street, people chattering on the sidewalk around her. She
can see up the women’s skirts, the slick black slack leg of the men. Sometimes
the bar door swings open just long enough and she can look inside at the dark
velvet, mahogany booths. Beautiful, drunk women snapping their teeth over ice
cubes socked in gin… men on their arms as they click by on teetering high heels.
heavy blonde, calves bulging in silver stilettos, stepped on her tiny flower
head, crushing her.
A single drop of warm dew,
petal-shaped, left on the sidewalk.