Autumn again and we’re both in our own corners of elsewhere. I wonder if you sit by the window, too. I wonder, of all
Artful decoy at the curb, working its spell from forty feet— a straight-line pull across the pavement, gait steadied by stony resignation, eyes forward.
Febrile, it is a wraith pecking like a pair of doves, creaky as the lone Antarctic ice sheet, 3 P.M. sun slanted down dog-tired
I’ll scrub reality’s grubby paws with anti-bacterial soap, spray its t-shirt with stain remover and toss it in with the whites, hose down its