Keep it in my closet. For free. Tried not to see the drunk
packing it up. Broke your futon so no one else could sleep
in it but you. The New Yorker was all fiction that week. Kitty
knocked over the plant, napalm in the soil. Sun-dried tomatoes
sprouted. Small green bullets. Your kitty made brave by the beer bottle.
You could take a transition flight. A passport. Photography,
the good old days, $850 essay on personal growth. Your leftover
monster in the fridge still-frames your face. Tomorrow I’ll pour
it out. That much is clear. A place for everything. Broke your futon
because no one else can toss the mattress like you.
Tossing people out is okay. On paper. Another weekend encounter.
Your admiration meant much to me, so I buried my tongue in miso
to dig it out. Your kitty is a PhD candidate. In environmental chemistry.
Neutered by acidic chemical content. I love you without object---
ions in the proton mix.