2018 / poetry / author
KEVIN CASEY
NO NEED
…
A pothos left for dead by some neighbor
in its half-shell of plastic, adorning
the corner of our tenement’s dumpster--
leggy and forlorn, though its waxy leaves
rose in a heap, shoulder upon shoulder,
mounting into a fountain of jade.
There’s no need for a houseplant, as these neighbors
would attest, no need to decorate
a narrow kitchen with this living thing,
a daub of color on a window sill
against the endless recitation
of fire escape and brick beyond,
and no need to wait until the shadows grew
to a dusk that swept away what little shame
a city might nurture--one man’s trash
is another’s treasure--but still I delayed
before hurrying it away, an act
that seemed more akin to larceny than grace.