Little Miss Watered-The-Neighbor's-Plants

Lyrics

Little green leaves, waiting on the porch.
July 5th, they drove away, tires on gravel.
You, Ocimum basilicum, Genovese strain,
roots thirsty in terracotta.

I saw you from my window, drooping at dawn.
No one asked, but the hose was there,
coiled like a promise on the fence.
Filled the watering can, old metal one,
from the spigot that drips on Elm Street.
Poured slow, soil drinking deep,
earth darkens to chocolate.
July 7th, first morning, dew on your veins.

Basil, you lived through the heat wave,
no fanfare, no note left behind.
The Johnsons gone to Maine, two weeks,
July 5th to 19th, postcards from Bar Harbor.
I watered you anyway, unbidden,
receipts tucked in my pocket, unseen.
Your aroma, sharp and sweet, thanks enough.

Nights when mosquitoes hummed,
I crossed the lawn, barefoot on grass,
can heavy with well water, cool from the tap.
Tilted it gentle, no splash on stems.
July 12th, storm passed, you stood taller.
Pinched a leaf once, for my pasta,
but mostly just watched you grow,
quiet favor, no knock on their door.

What if they never knew, basil?
The unrequested gift, roots fed in secret.
No thanks needed, no ledger kept.
Just you, thriving on the step,
when they unlocked the door on the 20th.

Little miss, watering can set down.
Favor done, receipts burned.
You lived, that's the poem.