where could this piece
(broken in haste) fit within
the grid that beautifies a night?
leaving you more unashamed,
even a little proud of emerged reds
that will never ever qualify as rubies.
we did not cut our feet on bickering’s edge
but the surface of your big toe swells like a captivated ear
enjoying modest breeze and public song
making the most out of
the rebellious propaganda in
your English teacher’s rock garden, standing and waiting
for your sheepish stumble
and some budding timbre that assures him enough
that the Last Word was never so ultimate.
he crossed a boundary, sturdy chest pressed
by a thin pale finger, slightly bent.
plastic ring, the sparkling pink
invites a smirk to dance—
trivial moments upset this dry face.
composing some song, uneven tempo
awkwardly mocking mixed signals perceived.
she lost her page, calendar torn
and no one provides the correct date—
three weeks late, stalled at another bus stop.
deadline on a yellow slip, facetious detention
with which he threatens between brittle walls.
years of honest warnings, clipped and tucked
into striped inner pockets of her favorite purse—
color at its fullest, emptiness unchanged.
nothing left to do, shaking her head
as he grabs a busted pen, numbers discounted.
you say hello, the desire for
melted halfway, ice cubes
thrown into a waxing cup
where coffee rests level
to small, sleepy secrets
that tease our clear beads
spinning on dry ground.
Cats No. 85 and 86 of the 500 Cats Project
the rusted abrasion
that, for a little while,
left you thinking twice
about floor plans started.
whether they’d pay for themselves
within the almost rude visibility
of uneven paint, scratches on walls
reminding you of detached voicemails
so flat, and barely a fine example,
of how one relays quaint rejection.
spend some time
by dimming stoplights
meeker than all your points
made with mechanical pencils
broken thanks to their stubborn will.
Cat No. 84 of the 500 Cats Project