Oh Buster,

Sometimes I think I have a remembering problem.

The sun will hit a building a certain way,

And there you are purring and drooling inside my grade school ears.

There have been many kitties through out the years.

But, you were the first.

You looked like Matchbox,

Younger though,

Just a little baby.

I was never mad at you for crapping on the rug,

Who needs carpet anyway?

-Makes me itchy.

Nope,

I loved you,

You looked just like Matchbox,

Younger though,

Just a little baby.

She can't help her temper,

Linda,

As far as I know,

It can't be helped.

Math homework can be helped.

Tempers, they need to be scraped out like a tumor.

Except, not by the hand of a hot Nicaraguan specialist,

Maybe under the guidance,

But, the actual surgery,

led on horseback, with white flags, and scarlet letters,

By the hands, and sticks of the patient herself,

But, that would imply that she is not a victim,

Or that she's tired of being a victim.

I suppose,

It would have to lead down that muddied road anyway,

Or out that window.

I remember that window.

In that itchy living room above that corduroy couch,

It was a basement apartment on the corner of Sheffield and Armitage.

It was cold,

And when you looked out those windows you saw feet,

Or terrified flashes of orange and white.

In a fit of rage,

She picked you up by the tail,

And threw you out that window,

Sounded like a pig being slaughtered,

Or like a baby being abandoned,

Like hell on earth, on Wednesday, on sidewalk.

Poor little guy,

Just a baby.

One minute you were there,

The next minute the sun shone sideways on the concrete blocks above us,

And the next minute,

You were gone.

Poor little guy.

I can relate.

East coast half #3 can probably relate more,

She was very young.

They said you would come back.

Don't worry,

I'm not mad that you didn't.

She's mean.

I wouldn't.

She doesn't.

Here we all are,

shopping for curtains on opposite ends of the world,

Trying not to look back,

Swallowing our own inherent rage.

Knocking on doors,

Squinting at the memories that slip in through the cracks.

Hoping this finds you curled up and cozy on the lap of your fake mom,

The couch of your green room,

Or the foot of your brother.

Sorry,

Skin/Toast/Fresh Milk