in the cracks of downtown Gano Street.
It lives on despite the odd lights cast from the nearby river
under the inconsistent flashes from a crosswalk box.
The artist by the walkway paints the cracks in the road
but ignores the growth, a stain of yellow on the asphalt
hanging on the edge of the concrete curb, as if
to flag a taxi ride to Wickenden Avenue.
The nurse reads a note while waiting at the light
and doesn't notice the weed leaning on her shoe.
Not one seems to notice the dandelion that grows
in the cracks of downtown Gano Street.
Rain, the dandilion dances the bobbing buoy
while the slick cars spray the civilian heels.
The architect mumbles angrily under the umbrella
crushing the dandelion with a size 5 1/2 shoe.
No one notices the dandilion grows
in the cracks of Gano Street.
A pauper boy sits alone by the crosswalk box
and notices a wilting weed covered in a sphere of hope.
The dandelion sacrifices itself for a wish in faithful silence
scattering off to fulfill the dream of a vagabond.
