Ammonia steams in
high-noon heat.
Lace flowers line
the festering pavement.
I do not breathe
but pause to watch
as the breeze bends
their drooping stems.
No, they are not roses, and
I couldn’t smell them if
they were, not over this
sickly city stench.
Still, I stop for their
filigree tops,
so wild yet
delicate.
pm poetry 