The small bush planted in the crossroad courtyard
is meant to be unnoticed. A dark green ball, frizzed
by the scheduled shears, balanced on a trunk that looks
too weak to hold it, birdleg of depilated wood
holding up its green world. To the left of the
courtyard a pedestrian tunnel leads to a subway platform,
each departure filling the tiled tube with a blast
of air, diminished on its arrival but strong enough
to bounce the bush’s body for six quick buffets.
To the right is a revolving door by which travelers reach
an escalator going Up, and the gasps of the air-
conditioned lobby bat the bush with a lesser severity.
When both a train’s removal and a traveler’s expulsion
fill the courtyard with rival winds, the breezes collide
upon the bush’s small imperfect body and it rocks
from side to side, a nervous bridesmaid alternating her
bouquet from hand to hand.