Roof Garden with Satellites

Atop the grocery roof, lettuce beds inhale moonlight. Forklifts sleep below like folded animals. A train drags a ribbon of sparks along the river. Someone waters basil as if tuning a violin.

The leaves answer in small green percussion, rain kept in their cups from last Tuesday's storm. Between HVAC sighs, a moth writes circles around the red eye of a weather antenna.

Dawn arrives first on the metal rails, then slips into soil, warm as bread. Tomatoes brighten, little lanterns with thin skins, and the city remembers it can feed itself.

By six, the elevator opens its brass throat. Crates descend smelling of pepper and wet stone. On the avenue, commuters lift paper cups, unknowing they are drinking the roof's first light.