Camille

Brown paneled walls are interrupted by a window.

On most days,

a little sun mingles with florescent light.

It’s just enough to keep a clearance rack plant alive.

The plant is watered by Camille.

She does her own nails

but still lets her best friend from high school perm her hair.

She turns the plant in the window every Monday

to allow the sun to reach the other side.

She read that tip in Better Homes & Gardens.

Outside the window in the paneled wall

a parking lot is filling with cars.

They sit, side-by-side, orderly and certain

between the yellow lines painted on the pavement.

Camille arrives at 7:30 a.m.

A scarf covers her hair

but the humidity finds it anyway.

She checks her bank balance on her phone

and doesn’t remember when the pavement wasn’t pavement.

She needs the parking lot and the sign that says

Reserved for Employee of the Month.

The light coming in the window today is filtered by rain.

Camille turns the plant anyway.

The rain rushes across the yellow lines and into the gutter,

carrying away plastic bottles and cellophane

and cigarette butts that didn’t make it to the can by the door.

As it follows the gutter down the street, the rain that fell on the parking lot

passes a field of Queen Anne’s lace and coneflower

and purple thistle as tall as a fence post.

A Painted Lady butterfly rides a cigarette butt into the storm drain.

Copyright 2019 – Laurie Marshall

This poem is being posted as part of the #100dayproject. Find out more here.