Dave Bonta imagines a slab of concrete in a vacant lot as something alive, with wants and dreams of its own. What it dreams of is the very wildness that was paved over: bindweed, burdock, mosquitoes, copperheads, even a wild rose "equipped with grappling hooks." The concrete longs to be loved rather than walked on, to cling to your pants leg or leave a bite you'll remember. In other words, it wants to be as clingy and prickly as the plants around it.
The speaker's tone is wry but pointed. The third stanza turns to "us," admitting that paving was meant as a "gift" to land we thought needed improving, and that we only grudgingly spare a little green space. Yet the pavement is already bulging and cracking open. The ending is quietly funny and a little ominous: there are no motels in this vacancy, and the "flag of our alienation" is swallowed by kudzu. The mood is playful on the surface, with a steady sense that human control over nature is shakier than we assume.