told to pack your bags, I guess.
whatever they contained, no one
remembers. perhaps they’re
lost in a dandelion thicket, paper
airplanes’ missing wings stuck
on the roof, or further broken on
sidewalks leading to a gas station
that grows in its barren longevity.
I feel that everyone already knows
that some books sell without the
last page. coffee stains reveal
more than we’d hope to awaken to
while the rain misses its quivering
targets. we’ll see there’s another
flash flood warning, and agree that
a lot of people shouldn’t be talking
on roads, or water that’s not wet.
doublespeak and jewelry hang from
wrists as you point at the breathing
sky, its grayness so dark. maybe “you” means “we” in proper sense, etiquette taught some time ago with too many steps to follow before ten o’ clock p.m. only the unseen speaks the nicest word, but letters never leave closed mouths.
we all need an umbrella.
Cat No. 118 of the 500 Cats Project