fossilized rain

a soggy peach
on a patch of grass.

branches outstretched
in their curiosities
as I walk a bit closer
to count all the ripples
across timberwolf puddles
that signal a warm afternoon
and the crunch of lost leaves,
brittle, frayed, and subtle.

two more drops
call me back to your door.

Cat No. 50 of the 500 Cats Project

forecasting

I can’t predict rain.
Arrives every so often
as I lay calm.
Maybe, biweekly
or every other month.

Just a slice
of caramel cheesecake
on crunchy graham crackers
thin, like her fingers
which could really use some Coppertone.

Ostensibly, I’m a pacifist
who’d like my own show,
but I know it’s a dream
like all the others
stitched in jeans she’s worn.

Cat No. 49 of the 500 Cats Project

she tried to take a peek.

the morning
doesn’t hide
too far away.

neither do
tiny voyeurs
in cold hurry.

losing time
and seeds
for big skies.

I witness
youth’s trying
and gawky flukes.

every week
she’s finding
gold in quartz.

Cat No. 48 of the 500 Cats Project

Her Therapeutic Walks

I always threw a fit
when a friend of mother’s
walked up the stairs
and asked me what I was drinking.

You know, some kind of Kool-Aid,
fresh like interrogated oranges
and their misdirected secrets
clinging to uncaring walls.

They wouldn’t return until I slept,
and this, I could never do so well
because I was annoyingly curious,
intrigued with cartoons starring girls crossed.

I was always afraid of the bridge
and its gaps that bit at my velcro,
so I’d often cry when she turned to leave
because of course, I could see her falling.

There are no local crocodiles
that promise relief from midnight removal,
the only viable option
involving sustenance for lost squirrels.

However, you arrived too happily
until it was time for milk and wafers,
a reminder for me to blink at the wall
and draw you on napkins, petite and alone.

omen

two clipped wings
spread across the ground
without a half-picked ribcage
through which one’s guilt
unfurls at the thinnest corners.

an omen regarded
cautiously as twilight echoes
of molars hitting repurposed steel
so everyone was warned
that one day, another will go.

with a message,
a warning,
a plea,
and rustling bribes,
for it is time.

fetching a roll of card stock
and etching our sins
on every line
though we know what was done
hours before it came.

Cat No. 47 of the 500 Cats Project

sunset

crouching rhythms wait
their turn before flashlight’s touch,
for patience is pure.

emulating peace
that falls in time with letters
sent in lack of angst.

drifting past critics
kept in their ironed blazers
who want the unseen.

pacing lesser now
and watching laughter soften
like candle wax faith.

Cat No. 46 of the 500 Cats Project