I’ve figured out why my phone
charger has given up. On me, or
maybe nothing at all. The air
outside, it’s stalling, like leaves in a
cheap fountain. Look at the clay,
and take notes on how you could
do a better job before ever taking
a class.

Lines of people unroll their plans.
Factories, labs, and donut shops.
With or without a decade of books,
everyone has to ask before they
build a house. Or a fortified box for
pigeonholed dreams. Something
like that.

Stop playing dead in the bicyclists’
lane. They’ve told me before, and I
obeyed for a little more than a
week. I’m afraid I may have ruined
something fun for all, if all includes
you and your roommate who refuses
to return before six.

I’ve figured out why I’m able to hear
the crickets better. I also know that
all my walks finish themselves in a
hurry. Pointing out every person
whose blazer and pants don’t
match must seem like amaretto
creamer. It tastes a great deal like
Robitussin when it’s all you care
to drink.

Cat No. 97 of the 500 Cats Project