When I walk home clutching a new plant at my waist, I feel my life has purpose.
Pedestrians observe a woman fully bloomed, imagine the bookshelf, or coffee table, or walnut dresser atop which she’ll live, and perhaps even her room in a sunny palace on Fulton, a French chateau right off the A.
I don’t cross the street when the light tells me.
I don’t trust anything but my eyes, and perhaps my frigid hands, whose fingers clutch royal baby in a pot, and my feet, who tirelessly, and without fail, lead me back to my front door.