American Shorthair

I thought I would get on a bus.

Wailing and awake,

I thought I would leave.

There would be huge gaps, 

I thought about it from the outside,

remote viewing.

I thought it would prove

my love, broken egg world,

new consciousness hatching.

I got on a bus. Just briefly,

the same one as always,

I rode for ten minutes. Bought things.

Texted, distributing

unshareable grief.

I had to go home.

My companion. Soul growing older in my room.

You deserved more from me.

We all deserve more from each other.

My companion. 

Seventeen years on my pillow.

One day Matt will 

meet you there,

but not yet. 

Like every life, there was a good year,

two,

even seven.

Like every life, those 

years

were long ago.

Or where they? I don’t know.

I thought I would start to run.

It was January, 2008.

It is January, 2025.

What does seventeen mean

in numerology?

I don’t know, 

my companion,

I don’t know.

I can’t remember our past ten years,

When her world was always the same.

But isn’t that what cats want?

Unchanging world, the patterns

of the day, birds in the morning

raccoons at night. If you hated

your roommate would you live on

from spite? In a body unblessed by

bad beginnings, small and allergic

trembling with love