In the Place Where Nothing Grows

He has no poetic garden to gaze upon no outside to the inside of this room Soft breaths of brothers 1, 2 and 3 like the breeze on the asphalt playground of his tiny school, one mile away. No light shines in his window No birds sing hymns from leafing trees No sign of spring or fall or summer display beyond the sill. In this place where nothing grows is life, but hidden from the world and the grand and stylish homes (with their fruit trees and fancy lawns) Within these walls with brothers 1, 2 and 3 mama collapses, exhausted on the sofa and papa snores loudly from the floor. He prevails with dreams and plans and sadness in leaps and bounds and setbacks between school lunches and cafe con leche for breakfast. In the place where nothing grows, he lives.