Little weed grows
by a blank corner of the house, untended
amidst paint thinner spills
under fluorescent light at night,
too ugly for anyone.
There's no mother for this weed,
its kind grows on its own
or maybe its mother was
an empty sack of concrete
that fell off a truck on the freeway,
its contents powdering shrubs for sixty yards.
Birds shit on it without thought
as it spreads through dry gravel.
Its fate is to be yanked without mercy
when some dull use is made of its area,
or to sit dry, dead, brown and dusty in sunlight
after a life missed by everyone.
More alive than televised Coca-Cola,
it has more value than a president.
© 1999 Mark Giffin