Those snake plants left inside the closed-down diner,
we see them through milky panes.
They refuse to lean towards the sun,
their last resource.
Sticky with the indifference
of the just-alive, they make phone calls
to Pluto. We marvel at the cool.
Their green spikes grow straight up.
If they die, it will not be from banking
hopelessly on wind, like the single people
who live in apartments over bars,
who can still hear intertwining words
of the drunken couples below.
They will die of strong spite,
stiff, ever green.