I could bloom here
in this concrete soil
with its steel skyline
and endless waves of people walking the pavement
going underground to get from point A to B to C
sometimes stepping on one another
without saying excuse me
making no eye contact
but connected at the root
I could get used to climbing several flights of
old stairs
crossing the street to do laundry
alongside big butt menopausal women with graying locs
people cursing each other
in front of China King
and Ma’s old stoop
watching the cat who sleeps curled up in the
barber shop window
in the afternoon sun
I could bloom here
in the cold
like a winter rose without thorns
trusting the universe to protect me
from danger
in this concrete soil
rising
