A Single Plant

Feb 14 2012

I am ashamed to say

I have a single plant.

I’m sure I knew its name.

once.

But I recognize it 

from shopping malls, office hallways,

where it survives the benign neglect

of coffee spills, and cigarettes

half-smoked.

A sturdy ornamental

with succulent leaves,

dull green

with dust.

It has survived

because it thrives in extremes

of wetness;

prefers its feet dry,

with a rare intemperate soaking.

Like a tropical downpour

in some exotic locale

where its ancestors would have flourished.

So we suit one another.

An anonymous plant

attention lacking,

and me

its feckless master,

who should not be entrusted

with living things.

Today, it was drooping badly

leaves bleached and dry.

So I was amazed, and gratified

how quickly it filled out

before my eyes,

rising-up turgid, and bright

with a single exuberant dousing.

Who knew

a rooted plant

could actually move

Like watching asparagus shoot skyward

in season.  

I felt redeemed,

as if the governor had called

with a last-minute reprieve.

Moral hazard

attaches

to indestructible plants,

rewarding men like me

for such lax stewardship.

My undeserved companion

cheering up the place,

free of rancour, and blame.

But sadly

still unnamed.