Greenhouse Above the Laundromat

At midnight the dryers drum like distant trains, and on the roof a pane of fogged glass breathes. Tomato vines climb the antenna mast, learning the alphabet of passing storms.

Coins spin downstairs in their brief silver weather; up here, basil bruises the air with dusk. A moth taps Morse code on the warm skylight, while rain threads needles through the city smoke.

By morning, shirts bloom on wire hangers, steam rising from cuffs like prayer from cups. Peppers hang red as small lantern moons, and bees commute between gutters and stars.

Who said concrete cannot remember soil? Under neon, roots keep a dark music. Each leaf lifts water into a green cathedral, and the block wakes fragrant, rinsed, and new.