Between Alternative Biographies

Two plants on the windowsill read like biographies,

White Pot is housed in metal frame

assessed fake until brown pokes out its cuffs

it’s the second beat that tells secrets

I’m trying to break the habit

of ending conversations before talking,

first I’m White Pot’s shiny plastic,

then Gray Pot’s dirt spills out from a dry mouth

open wide with crooked green teeth

in the real world, things are real

I keep telling myself

My nephew said he’s sad for me

said I don’t live in a house with a family,

suggested I knock on doors and ask for a family,

White Pot has grown around the metal rafters,

too big, I fear, to now get out unscathed,

this is a better explanation to my nephew than I gave

for the satisfaction in my decision