A potted plant stands proud
by my doorstep.
I don't know what kind of plant it is—
geranium, perhaps—but
I don't really care. No one
ever asks, no one probably notices.
It's just another potted plant,
unoriginal and uninteresting.
It will never spread
beyond its pot, never even see
the grass of my tiny front lawn.
I suppose it is happy
just being there, with me
providing water in a little,
purple plastic cup.