Rooftop Greenhouse at 3 A.M.

At three a.m. the rooftop greenhouse exhales a warm breath over the sleeping laundromat. Tomato vines climb the glass like slow handwriting, green cursive against a January sky.

Below, buses kneel and rise at empty stops, their doors opening for no one but light. Inside, basil leaves hold small reservoirs of rain, each drop reflecting a red aircraft warning lamp.

I carry a mug that fogs the panes from within, as if weather can start in a human palm. The city hum threads through pipes and trellises, a low cello note beneath the hiss of heaters.

When dawn arrives, it does not break but soften: steel roofs turn milk-blue, then pearl. A bee wakes in a crate of marigolds and chooses, first thing, the nearest bloom.