I can’t remember
seventeen syllables if
they meant my whole life.

Parked in front of a
perfect square of green jell-o,
looking through the glass.

I hear the purr, feel
it in my palm gliding on
crackling fur, recall.

Over her shoulder,
past her sunlit chestnut hair,
the clock says, time’s up.

A bird thumps the plate
glass, falls into the flowers,
dead, blood and feathers.

No one notices
but me. Maybe it didn’t
really happen. Now.

Condensed rivulets
coursing inside the plate glass
soak the moldy drapes.