“Here, kitty kitty”
Sky is sullen like a bad nap
Somewhere a door windslams,
Could be near the spot where last week he saw a rat
Silver and bloated, fur matted like a possum.
Where lay three pink justborn things, dead.
Sky tries to get yellow.
Guitar crawls up the vents, across the floor to stare a song at him
A loop so familiar it could be in his head
Something below is itching out a song.
He scratches his neck, the tops of his shoulders, first one and now the other
Touches the pinky toenail that fell off that time he ran so far with Caroline,
Trying not to drag by her loosebone wrist
Down to the water where he would press his forehead to the sand,
Scrape off the wetness emerging from his head.