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

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