I often feel like a stem
acknowledging the presence of the breeze
of the suspicious air conditioning
vent
nearby
(indifference)
I am the stick (perhaps
I use to be a stem)
plunged into
moss
soil
medium
I am not conferred;
a symbiotic relationship:
I hold a plant clip [which -
mind you - was never a stick,
stamen, or stem, but plastic]
[this is not my Purpose]
next to the stem
to statuesquely support it's apparent stature
[but in all honesty
in the hypothetical hierarchy
of the overall prevalence of this particular plant
(including its beautiful,
obnoxious blooms)
which is higher:
me, or the plant clips?]
[this is how I feel]
and its blooms
on a good day
I forget myself
I just look up
and breathe
well
either way, I breathe
just like renting a room
