he that is preoccupied

I shook my head at pancake syrup
because I knew it’s your tool
when words fall within the cracks
and spaces that even lizards avoid
after offering excuses no one buys.

Dishes are toppling over
themselves in a room dark like
autumn days should become,
murkier still as you dance those
crooked steps disregarding mind.

Your lips move as midnight moves
closer, openings seal like tape
and the locket hanging to disagree
breaks at the hinges, paper photo
ripping without the unfelt touch.

Television blared the day I knocked
and you told me to call back, that
you were busy, in a conference
that did not result in a solid deal
to ease your labored breathing.

Cat No. 90 of the 500 Cats Project


the whistles are calling
children crossing streets
though school already started
a good while ago.

no squirrels today,
but another kid
who could very well
be one of my brothers
crawls under the fence, yawning.

the further we walk
towards what only seems
like the end of an old brick path,
the more forgivable resting becomes.

Cat No. 63 of the 500 Cats Project

what was left

A few more miles
I will walk.

Muddied, unrecognized
And bothered by dust.

Remembering the day
Of cradled urns.

Remains of their plight
Tousled in rain.

Tell me these tire marks
Are dark and real.

Scent of raw leaves
Not of a past.

Remind me that I am a droplet more
Than infancy’s scuffed shadow.

Cat No. 53 of the 500 Cats Project