After we cross the river, past one of the electric company’s plants
and the tombstones of industry – rusted rail cars banked to disused tracks,
a morgue of old trailers in the lot of the Super Flea –
the winding road is walled on one side with lush overgrowth of different shapes
and heights of green.

Higher, on the hill over the road,
over which the depth offers no outlook,
the trees would be perfect to hide a
modern structure, a new tiny home truly
on the edge of the city.

The lower banks are covered
in tight clusters of short trees whose
tropical green leafage stands in relief
to the cement and corroded iron.

The scene is nothing spectacular.
The area invites no horticulturalists to explore
the divide between urban structures and the plants that will overtake them
one day.

One day, we may leave and come back.
Maybe the trees will have been allowed to
push out the machinery, turn the rail yards into green houses,
reconcile the residents with a part of living taken for granted
even while it flourishes without notice.