1/2 CC

I passed two needles on my way home to day.
Laying right next to each other in broad day light,
that stinging truth kind of sunshine that exacerbates
the steal head bands.
In a little plot of dirt, a city's attempt to revitalize urban life.
Concrete life.
Cement walls, cement walk ways, cement drive ways,
flat gray, charcoal gray, glittery new paved road gray.
All erased by little plots of dirt with adolescent trees awkwardly spring up from the "earth", pathetically supported by a pole and some wire.
These trees know they don't belong, but they lean on their canes patiently,
like an old withered man waiting for the bus.
These little dirt plots live all over the city's sidewalks,
and many, like this one in particular, was empty.
Two 1/2 cc safety syringes laying on a plot of earth,
where a city planted tree used to live.
That tree is dead and gone now, the plot forgotten by the committee whom so adamantly petitioned for the funds.
Yet the 1/2 cc safety syringes lay there quietly, amongst the persistent weeds,
like a pair of secrets.
Like two little lies under the sun.
I would make the third.
Years ago, I would plunge them into my belly every day.
I hated those things, but I liked watching them puncture my skin.
My skin has been quite forgiving. Although I have not been so successful.
Two little syringes, trying to blend in to the dirt and shrubbery,
with out shame or explanation, just laying there side by side.
Two tots tucked into one bed, peering over the covers.
I nodded at the two and continued on my walk,
all three of us under a generous sun.