Bricks.

Sometimes the kitty looks like he can't walk.

And then the other kitty licks his face.

And then you write this short story about a wheel barrow,

And a pile of leaves,

And a woman with a broken nose.

And the sound of the flashing lights.

And your spirituality teacher talks about sexual sins,

Like you've heard that term before,

And then you really lose it.

And it's that time of year when the chest gets tight,

And you have to stalk up on those generic inhalers that match the wheel barrow exactly.

In snap shot and mileage, in staple and moisture.

And how would you describe a lamp shade?

Could you spend three pages on a lamp shade,

A spider dangling from it's light?

A drunk matriarch in the dark corner?

Or is that all wasted on the truth?

The kitty with the infection.

The every night tea.

The Ikea lamp on the hard covered Lammott.

Into the night.

Into the how does she do that?

The thanksgiving tickets.

The dropping degrees.

The ginseng that bookends the teeth you already cleaned.

The vet appointment in the morning.

The ol' familiar in and out,

And down and through.

How does such a small chest get so heavy?

How does such a nice kitty get so nice.

Even when something is clearly off.

I could do with a tight lung.

But, my kitty,

Nope.

If he's in pain,

The terrorists have one.

Should you keep spinning the facts down the back of your unlucky pocket, but put a best selling leprechaun in the middle of your based on actual spine?

Should you bedazzle your grocery lists onto a canvas,

Shine your twenty dollar lamp up the ass of em',

And call it artifact?

Or should you pull it all out of the air all around,

The air that can't get to the chest, or the cat.

In the mean time,

Just do it.

Puncture that virgin skin.

Tell William Williams the plums were meant for him.

Write what you know while there's life in your flesh.

Have we learned nothing from Our Town?

Every Every,

Skin and Toast