Rooftop Greenhouse, 3 A.M.

Above the laundromat vents, glass ribs hold the dark, tomatoes glow like small red planets in their wire constellations, rain beads on the panes and listens, the city below changes shifts in a language of brakes and steam.

I move between basil and mint with a flashlight cupped low, moths circle it, brief white punctuation, soil breathes up a warm, mineral hymn, and every leaf answers by turning its thin green ear.

On neighboring roofs, satellite dishes keep their silver silence, but here the cucumbers climb whatever they are given, twine, pipe, moonlight, my sleeve, their tendrils writing cursive across the night air.

By dawn, the eastern windows pale to milk, sparrows test the gutter like tuning forks, I cut one ripe pepper and it opens like a small sun, proof that even in concrete, something patient can bloom.