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