on our fair earth

It would seem impossible for a house plant to have joy loosely rooted in a glazed bowl of nutrient depleted soil every third day fed plastic cups of fluorinated water enduring yellow, rainless nicotine puffs forever stunted like a secondhand son. A withering witness, to squabbles and suffering violent deeds and sudden ugliness praying for sunshine=force fed shadows wishing for a fairy on a breeze but whiffing only shiny linoleum bargain coffee and bacon grease. Besides a bulb lit zoo puma, eternally pacing-pacing... a house plant is the saddest thing I've ever seen.