Portrait of a Small Town

Here we have a philosophic parking lot
between tall buildings.
Both are forgotten,
their doors are gone,
but weeds gyre there
through asphalt,
and the weird sorts of “flowers”
Ya-ya-Ya!
each stubbornness gets,
it grovels on
the nearest sky.
And it is a life,
we call it a life
to find, and it is
a life to lose,
its various folds,
to collapse into integument,
to become a stone
with our arms across
our chests at the end.
Across the street
though, it is still now,
I mean the green sort,
dirty old steel mill canal
nobody uses anymore
except the fish
with long whiskers
and protected opalescence
that no one would ever
think to call
protected.