The window in the parking lot pavement is drying
around the oak leaves from last fall, the chain-link
fence, the shed, and the golden cat on the ridgebeam
in the window in the parking lot.
No fiction is disposable-it's a threat, it's a lie,
the fear of a reality.
Now there's two of them, and on this side of the window,
the one has slunk off the tile and trespassed onto the mulch,
and now it digs.
I lost my cat to a dog.
I lost my locket from my pocket.
I lost the end of the thread into the eye of the needle.
The cats mound like snails hauling their houses as they sit
now on the picnic table beside the red and yellow bicycle.
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