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


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