Last night, after I watched 14 people speak their work,
I stepped on the cat's paw outside my bedroom,
ate a protein bar with too much chalk, and threw away
my dead hamster's bedding. It's been a month and
sat in the corner behind my stack of poetry books.
My house, full of stacks, smells of cat piss
and passive aggression. Last night, I dreamed
of magazines and not enough Neosporin
to fix the wound you left. You did the fadeaway--
Like sidewalk chalk in the sun, pencil on paper,
or memories--I wondered for a moment, when I could
still hear the cat licking his paw, if you knew anything.
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