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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