she got out her graham crackers,
only to throw them in Greek yogurt.
marshmallows and Hershey chips sat in a blue bowl.
really, it was kind of sad.
she got out a spoon that we knew
would break just as she got to the bottom
of all the lines yet to be entered so anyone
who needed to know got word just like that.
she learned what was taught.
down, like pat.
she got out some broken ice cubes,
awful aim tipping over a plastic pink cup.
Cat No. 111 of the 500 Cats Project
I’ve got a feeling
you’ve been told
the same things.
fawned over, so
how many dimes
add up to fill our
it’s fine to ask
but waiting on
your answer has
quieted the rain.
your truth could
sting the eyes.
all I have that
no one’s seen
in spry delight.
I stand along fine
grazing my face
as I fail to resign.
my tongue feels
sore with time.
cars in a hurry
to take a dream
a street too far.
Cat No. 110 of the 500 Cats Project
she ate crème brûlée with the bluntest fork.
this afternoon, her first time.
she wanted to tell the world and its
mother that she finally knew what
she had missed, what she had feared,
and all she could only read about
between walls so thin like the red worn
by crisp, dainty apples washed with joy.
morning is rarely missed, returning too soon
with birds in the middle of gossip’s fifth round
piercing the lightest blue, and she’ll learn to
make some for herself, plastic spoons aplenty
as the clock does stand oh so wonderfully still.
it was never too late for the girl
who shook and cried after an unbroken fall.
Cat No. 109 of the 500 Cats Project
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
Plastic, glass, transparency.
You who have given your best so freely while the vanilla
inside the busted freezer solidifies so stubbornly
and stabs all youth’s sides.
Run in this finicky heat and tell me if you’ve won
today’s crackling debate.
Apply all you could know into the pores, some large
and some like the point on a pencil sharper than
your thesis statement born on foggy mornings when cars
kiss backsides with force and unfulfilled hunger.
Streets keep winding regardless of the time
your eyes spent lost in smeared fine print that
never seems to make up its damn mind the longer
you take to wrap a bow around runaway reasons.
Even in houses with manicured lawns, Swarovski
figurines convulse on clean tile floors.
you leave me exhausted,
and my eyes should’ve closed
but I run to both ends,
living room begs for Clorox.
dipping fingers in a ripped bag,
thinking up lies when
asked how much I make,
and all I’ve made is chalky regret.
pace and trip over the past,
face in line with dim stoplights
and lips short like mumbling,
mosquitoes ridiculing every crease.
I see you three days out,
the week’s hefty wavelength
throws its hunger on still shale,
footprints solemn like young moons.
pat these cheekbones pink,
grapefruit skin clings to meat
so raw and pretty when prosthetic,
though sinewy as your goodbye.
I press myself dutifully against the creases
of my first sofa, curling pink toes and taking
a breath here and there because I cannot rely on
the increased intensity of our 2AM releases while
we’re both so grounded in not exactly knowing how
to spell something other than “astronaut” after
they continue to ask us what we’ll come back as
when there are no more shops selling milkshakes
within the hours we both gasped at just how good
it feels to wear everything backwards (everything).
slow it down, the lights don’t sleep like you
assume I can’t, and this is unusually fine with me
as you stub your toe on tables in ways I don’t
understand like the laws of physics multiplying in
heat while anyone with pity says my fear and lukewarm
speechlessness run to each corner of my faded paper
brain that’s more like a balloon skidding across a
sandy road with the shortest string trailing behind.
making the most of what brevity rustles on your
front porch and the flimsy reminders of old windowsills.
that’s all we have to do, and we will be just fine.