tangy foreclosure

the radio acts up again, because
spanking never works.

and so these wrists ache.

I can scream louder, but the same
mundanity from 2004 falls to the floor
where medical bills conceal postcards
written from a friend visiting cousins
in some part of Japan that’s not
too crowded, not too cold for your
mercurial leanings toward adventure
on paper, in life, on faded lines.

don’t call her Mom; it’s not
what she ever aspired to be
while night had a while until
cars of tomorrow hummed over
the snickering of jaded crickets
unable to love or express wants
the way pretty people do
within unplanned neighborhoods.

and so these lashes sting.

the suitcase opens up again, because
kicking only hurts.

Cat No. 107 of the 500 Cats Project

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