The city forgets to water itself,
so the cracks do the remembering.
Dandelions clock punch through asphalt,
yellow mouths shouting overtime.
In the abandoned lot behind the liquor store,
tomatoes rise from shopping carts,
bent ribs of metal holding soft red hearts.
Someone’s grandmother lives in those leaves—
I can taste her salt and stubbornness.
Potholes become baptismal fonts for rain,
where oil-slick rainbows teach weeds how to bruise.
Every blade of grass is a small illegal prayer,
filed without a permit, approved by roots.
A fist of sun breaks through boarded windows.
It lands on broken glass and does not bleed.
Even the rats pause to admire what survives.
Luxury condos lift their reflective chins,
but they cannot see the underground choir—
the choir that sings in pressure and dark,
in the grammar of almost nothing left.
Here, hope does not look like a manifesto.
It looks like a pea vine strangling a stop sign.
It looks like green refusing to ask permission.
And every night, the concrete dreams of fields
it tried and failed to bury alive.
–
Ismael S. Rodriguez, Jr. (he/him) writes poetry that illuminates overlooked urban life, the pulse of resistance, and the quiet ways the human spirit persists. His work has been published in a variety of journals spanning spirituality, arts, and social commentary.
© 2026, Ismael S. Rodriguez, Jr.
Halfway Down the Stairs 