Beyond the ribbed panes of the kitchen window
swings a gorgeous plum and yellow philodendron;
sweeping lacquered leaves catch the breeze
half in split leaf, half monstera,
a good name for such a beast!

She belongs to our neighbor,
who carefully disregards her day after day,
neutrally striving to feed her natural sunlight
(9-9:30 a.m.) and a sprinkle of cloud water
from the Mountains half-past
whatever the sky might bring today.

She is looked at with a longing
disinterest by the man with the extra-loud daughter,
the high schooler who sits at the table
and shrieks her woes to our patio window.
When her petals fall to the earthen floor,
they are run over by Apt D’s Honda CR-V.

And yet.
With all her neglect,
all her regal splendor abhorrently ignored,
with her bad positioning to catch the sun’s rays
she could still seat a soccer stadium, bring them all
to their knees.

Who deserve such a beauty
as the plum and yellow philodendron?

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