My balcony cactus sits
Alone on a wooden table
Far from its natural biome
The sand washed dunes
Of distant deserts
–
Instead four stories up
And slightly inland
Upon the humid, temperate shores
Of the muddy Rio de la Plata
–
I wonder if it feels lonely
Out of place
Cupped in gaudy orange plastic
Stared down upon
By austral birch trees
–
If when the cool wind nips
Or the skys unleash torrents
It doesn’t long
For dusty, dry winds
