work a good job.
advice seeming sound
though butterflies grin
with such taunting quickness.
I glare, stare, as hard as one possibly dares when it feels like fried eggs litter the street, their whites like paper towels absorbing complaints and greetings and backtalk I understand too well, but do not adopt. Sometimes tree branches play their tricks like perpetually red stoplights. We think it’ll rain and fetch our umbrellas. Later, we’ll juggle our heavier bags, shoulder blades caught in summer’s pressure.
breathe the savory dream.
Cat No. 77 of the 500 Cats Project
you know that sadness
falls or floats
like a rubber ducky
staring you down
he will live, indebted to none.
eye the filling,
cherries that push
a favorite graham cracker crust
to the finishing line
though blue porcelain
remains in cabinets
that rattle of complacency.
petals continue an awkward debate
uneven, all leaves barely cutting.
Cat No. 76 of the 500 Cats Project
mid-afternoon to-do list
suddenly bursts into
waiting on the highest porch and falling down at the slightest sound
made by cars laughing at “yield” signs and most things resembling them.
stay a while
and console yourself
counting hangnails on long thumbs.
the lonely man at the corner reminds us everyday that five is a lie
and fourths make up the most filling portions of award-winning pies.
one nose, single brain
tracking the last dime
with no light criticisms.
Cat No. 75 of the 500 Cats Project
Firecracker ice cream truck
now accepts debit cards
and slows itself only beside
those on bikes, adults
who fan themselves, pained smile
aching from sugary concentrate
dripping down the insides,
little cup melting, its base
never solid while pink
bursts through the old floor
that leaves the palm cut
like the quick, like appointments
rushed even when patients
come fifty minutes late
as principle asks for its check
without fail, and punctuality
is a luxury sporadic, but yes,
you do what’s expected, things
that you decided were worthy
of your not-so-constant signature
inflamed with inkblot dots
when knuckles around the pen
grow white, our whipped cream.
Cat No. 74 of the 500 Cats Project
Creamsicle spill down a tightly buttoned blouse
that has sold all the bad sides shown by a flip
of a gold-plated coin, the duality of heads
crying, “It’s your lucky day,”
again, the phone breaks
as nails split roughly at the speed of four wheels
pleading for acceptance on mornings when the rain
chooses no excuses, comes as soon as children call
and clutch the tiniest microphones, bangs out of place
like the littlest toe on a coffee table chipped
by settled expectations, resting barely
when thirty minutes crawl past 9 PM
the phone cuts loose, bruised skin
tightened, though urgently wet
Cat No. 73 of the 500 Cats Project
They always say, “It’ll rain at midnight.”
Two minutes, five, then
seven hours after
an announcement deafening ears,
a promise to those with fledgling gardens.
I quietly smirk without words
to place my misunderstood order
at the tallest counter, tiles in every shade
of our four feared oceans.
“You forgot the Antarctic.”
Valley of weeds will land my fall
and the tumble through clovers
so cutting at the outermost edge
while my feet hit bits of sighing rock.
The day for parasols passed
and returns so unexpectedly
like cravings for milk and its magnetism
that trapped the healthy, only once.
“I’d like mine with half and half.”
Cat No. 72 of the 500 Cats Project