Three little vines —
I can not tell them their names or their experiences —
sprout towards the coin-op laundry machine
from a basement window in the back of my building.
The pair that grow closer together easily reach out ten inches.
The plastic Christmas tree that’s sat there for ten months
has only accumulated a collective of cardboard boxes
patient at the end of the storage units —
I do not identify, I only turn and see it back there —
It sits and listens.