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”
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