Garden of Ending

The domestication of the wolf into dogs is 
comparable to the snatching of virulent 
plants to make them minimalistic million-dollar 
loft decor. Please, for the love of God, indulgent 

parents of irresponsible whiny four-year-olds, 
let the youthful cactus live long enough to watch the 
polluted sunrise behind the cramped grey cityscape; 
and donate it to the plant mom living on ends meat.

She will make a welcomed rural home out of flower
boxes dangling from chipping window sills. She will
push the Belladonna and Brugmansia aside 
in their painted (with vivacious floral mosaics)

Terracotta pots so the foggy sunlight may
shower the succulent's waxy leaves and adapt
to the suffocating air, all thanks to the smog of
industrial buildings, secondhand cigarette smoke,

and remnants of the human bonfire four streets down
that has been lingering closer to her broken 
down house. She will make do with the popcorn ceiling and 
creeping asbestos in her bathroom and eat mouse-sized 

meals in order to savor the flourishing plants
despite everything that is pitted against them. 
She will make a home out of her garden like Eden 
and wait at the door for the serpent to steal it all.