light off the horizon
bounces back onto you,
shielding your eyes
and patting your knees.

unruly bangs in flight,
disrupted and singed
like shavings of whiskers,
exploration clipped.

it is doubtful we’ve met
though the humming I hold
operates on AAA batteries
charged again, thoughtlessly.

the coolness of soil
in margarine pots
are the feathered pillows
you’d like to buy.

my shadow stays put
and my nods remain curt
while you turn towards home,
checkered tennis shoes far apart.

Cat No. 47 of the 500 Cats Project