I wonder and worry
about things done on Friday
that I’m pretty sure someone
else has addressed.
So kind and brave.
A walk from the bakery to
another closing sandwich shop
and a protest line of stop signs
twisted at the root, six sides
falling into your yard, and only
your yard, which is great because
no one likes spending his first
late night raising a strained voice
over uneven blades of grass that
resemble, more or less, the zipper
of a lost love’s overused skirt, one
that looked good with flats only
after she realized that she was better
off without you and could say this
somewhat loudly in front of mirrors
smeared by toothpaste packaged
by liars, the jaded, and those too
familiar with late winter laziness
and joy afforded to snapped legs.
I’m pretty sure there’s something
she wants to address
but her Friday is a wordy one
eight months away, lost and found.
Cat No. 108 of the 500 Cats Project