They call me a bottle of Xanax.
or a warm glass of milk,
a romance novel she reads once more
but without the dogeared pulp.
There’s nothing I really offer,
aside from scrapbook prescriptions
to soothe, to rest these shaky hands
upon my nose in rain.
Cookie crumbs hide nearby
and I tiptoe down a tummy cold,
but I’m too kind to simply decline
a kiss on the head, my twenty-fifth blanket.
I am not the permanency
or Roth IRA to save a face,
but I sit in the corner on timberwolf days
with clovers collected in earnest.
Cat No. 41 of the 500 Cats Project