The cactus has gone limp. Leaves touch the ground. Brown. Turning brown. Maybe not enough water. Maybe too much. Soil is ash. White. Looks like death. The death of a plant.

It used to have pink blooms. Stood erect. Stems reached for the ceiling. Now. Now it looks like an old man in an easy chair. Sprawled out. A can of beer on the table next to his cigarettes. Smoke rises.

Eventually, he’ll be buried. So will the cactus. Out in the backyard with the others who didn’t make it. Roses, tulips, irises, purple lavender, all killed from neglect, selfishness. Or, maybe it was just their time.