Nobody knows the names of the people who tend to the pretty flowers guarded by the sinew-haired nymph in the delicate plant nursery in Los Angeles. 

Nobody takes note of which of the various moon-haired women that pace through the moss-bitten floor with dragonfruit gloves and plum-slice aprons,

Nobody stares at the scalloped buckets and soil-smeared specimen tags buried into the floor beside the chalkboard sink next to the lantern like red vein indian mallow tree,

Nobody searches for the man who clips the prickled branches of the bonsai tree

and wedges a straw-hatted man beneath its shade, atop a miniscule boulder,

Nobody knows who molded the faces of the dog-faced flower pots,

or who plucked a paintbrush from a murky glass cup and colored them in,

Nobody knows who feeds the sticky-armed sundews 

or the plastic-caged venus flytraps with their stout necks,

Nobody knows who hangs the snakelike pothos up on the iron-skeleton ceiling,

Nobody knows who turns on the crackled radio to play the ballads of Roy Orbison,

Nobody knows who stops to smell the flowers

or takes pictures of the anemone blossoms,

Nobody knows who wore the ruffled skirt to match the hydrangeas on Sunday

or who’s lips beneath the tortoiseshell sunglasses is reminiscent of the geraniums on Friday,

Nobody knows who carved the curves of the granite nymph, 

Because,

in the big city,

Nobody really knows anybody except themselves.