A Rose Walked Through The City

A rose walked through the city
bruised red petals,
its roots almost dried,
almost withered from the heat
of the sidewalk.

She followed every footstep,
looking, wandering.
Maybe a drip,
even a puddle
would suffice.

Her petals stretched
like open hands,
praying to God
for a piece of rain.

She was thirsty.
Her sweat dried
before forming good.

She wasn’t from here
but who really is?

A cigarette butt
stuck to her root.
The cars pass by.
People almost step on her.

Love almost seemed
like a vase
a place where water flowed endless,
and her roots
could be soft.

No one waters flowers
in the city.

As much as she prays
for water,
a genuine smile
would do wonders

a vase she could
plant herself in,
and be taken
care of.