Your soul has walked into the very center of my soul. I wanted really strong herbs, I should seek out the ones who survive in the city. Downtown chickory, leaves sharp, with aged sinew stalks assumes the position against the wall. Nannies mind toddlers in sunlit playgrounds pigeons choose bugs and pastry crumbs for nestlings but dandelions grow in darkness shrouded in crumpled trash and abandoned newspaper. Never watered and fertilized like some windowbox wimp, but raised on beer barf and dog piss, grown up in gasoline fumes and diesel oil, deafened by the sounds of traffic, and starlings, and radios blasting from passing cars, orphaned blossoms still punch cracks in grey sidewalks to grip rough bricks and cheap aluminum window frames.
Concrete herbs endure.
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