The heat comes through the glass
like a drunk into a bar -
it stays all afternoon,
revelling in ownership.

I am a potted plant,
an exotic breed of unemployed,
flourishing in this greenhouse.

My leaves grow fat and shiny,
spreading langorously over the couch,
drooping onto the computer desk.
One root hangs in the kitchen sink,
for when I grow thirsty.

My brain is a sodden tuber,
water-fat and on the verge of rot.
The heat and I are one
and we spread to fill this apartment.

I can swell - 
stretch my stalk, send my leaves
groping into every corner,
until there is more plant than place.

But never will I flower
in this hot and stagnant space.