The potted plant in my room
standing on a small, tall table
that reaches up past my waist
is dying in the winter darkness.
There’s a white spot
on the ceramic pot.
Primer?
Is it primer?
These thoughts haunt me.
Was it meant to be painted?
Did they give up?
The leaves are returning to green,
ignoring the dead that lay on the ground,
and promising me that the smell—
the smell of rotting bananas—
will fade in time.
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