where it’s cooler

they’ve caught us again.

pointing fingers
or at least pawing
at limbs quick to break
as wind chimes somehow
get the idea that they could muster
volume in voice, a shout that quiets the town.

hide another crumb beneath these dry leaves
and nod your head for every single ant
who defies these jagged pebbles
that spin and mar the surface
not belonging to red hoods
of cars, nor old sweaters.

underneath, it’s cooler.

Cats No. 93 and 94 of the 500 Cats Project

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Dangling Mobile of Ordinary

Mercy of a lazy afternoon.

Babies asleep, sign on door says
it’s just not smart to ask for
conversation.

Or start it.

The car battery’s given up for this
particular meantime. You can hold
your breath, but the bluebonnets
won’t. They did their time, daring
not to quiver as the babies smiled
on command.

Most people still have their senior
yearbook.

Nowadays, it’s a breakfast tray,
hosting more napkins than cups of
black coffee since the city declared
it wants to cut down. How many
cups could fit on the glossy block,
flat the way some people like their
leisurely soda?

I couldn’t tell you,
so I guess we’ll never know
while most of the questions
I’ve left by your door
run back to me, wet streets
stained, smelling of Big Red
that only I can taste.

You will discover more things that
always spun over your bed.