This morning, I didn't hear you scale the cage, gnawing knee deep in metal and plastic.
I didn't hear the water bottle insert move up and down with the pace of your tongue,
lapping in eighth notes. Still in the bowl, four blocks of something I trust was nutritious.
You'd have eaten by now. Not quite the sit-on-your-face alarm clock, but you somehow
knew when I put food in the bowl, eager and nipping at my skin. But when I grab
your little ball of brown and white, its cream, and you're blackening, cooling
with the air outside. I have a running Instagram of dead things, but they're all run over
or stepped on. You, curled around a block under the chewed up wooden bridge, in a pine
pile, can't be on it just yet. I'm just grateful the trash hasn't come yet.
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