the beauty of sloth
is that I am not.
dash before beamers
sidle on hoods.
Sunday breathes
and beagles may cry.
panting at the side,
of Rage Against the Machine.
I study the grain,
paw at dissent.
These girls,
one skittish
and the other wet with thirst,
argue whether 1990
qualifies their kind.
button down groupies
of Generation X.

let me tell you,
they’re sweating, and wrong.
So just because Leila
came home with shades of Green Day
and because you heard her ask,
“…what does ‘Longview’ mean?”
doesn’t make you any more
of a casual, lemoned expert
than when you grabbed at Barbies.
conjugation God forbid.
this has always been
Mom’s sweet tempest.

by the way, they still mold Kens
with simplicity bestowed
on the commercial infertile.
and me?
I’ve committed to all that is duty.
everyone has left.

milk, too thick
and fish quite dry –
so fester a few blocks down to the right,
if you could, at all.

read the sign
or save for fines.
let me be,
as these whiskers fall.

*Cat No. 19 of the 500 Cats Project