our Saturday

it’s barely apparent.

our tempered lives,
differing like rows
of uneven eyelashes.

however, could you find me?

head stuck between
splinters, the slot
where umbrellas pirouette.

the both of us, here.

matted ears singed
by clouded disapproval
from sleepy aunties.

spring hums far.

Cats No. 39 and 40 of the 500 Cats Project

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catcalls

She walks in a short red skirt,
stitched sharply like a Burberry bag
with good luck napkins hastily stashed
on the morning of her twentieth interview.

Another Chevy Tahoe rolls by,
and nervously, she shakes her head
to decline a bite to eat
as she’s full, and can’t stand strangers.

Lawyers, accountants, pharmacists
and other tall ladies in pastel scarves
do roll their eyes as she often does
in the face of finger-painted sentiments.

The digit on the left, single and pale
when there are no reasons to drive to the beach
and off-black strands to the right, so matted
where burgundy glasses almost slip off the ear.

Heels to be heard three blocks south
click closer and always, she stops to breathe
stilling herself to say, “Hello”
before my indifference to downtown ogling.

*Cat No. 38 of the 500 Cats Project