last night a fat orange cat
who sleeps inside with me
more nights than not,
now that the temperature
outside has dipped
itself into austerity,
last night a fat orange cat
vomited on the unseen living
room floor.
lights off, both
inside and out,
my own internal light
only a smudge,
casts cat vomit in shades
of absence.
red-bearded and walking
gingerly, i fumbled
for wall’s grasp of electricity.
we seek
illumination?
we prefer
to keep our eyes
tunneled?
in want of paper
towel i unspooled
toilet paper
to quickly remove
vomit from floor,
shuddering.
this event reminded me
of a brief overlap
with a woman. she
too had a fat orange cat
who liked to vomit
on the floor. she too,
the woman, not the cat,
liked to explore the world
with me, through words
as much as physical motion.
she liked to tell me that
it is healthy to cry.
and she cried a lot.
at first her support
of crying
was also a support
of me.
an allowance to work
towards a letting go
of masculine indoctrination,
the shattered culture
of failed Western Capitalism.
ideas metastasize like cancer,
here in this country of bullies.
the most savagely fearful
given free reign
to pervert their fear
into a feigned strength.
brave men congregate
in public places brazen
with rifles, desperate
to hide their terror.
and when our overlap,
this woman and mine,
not the cat, though
also the cat,
as when she left me so
too did the cat,
this woman and i,
when our overlap began
to noticeably fray, when
a cleaving was inevitable,
her encouragement for me
to cry was less
about encouraging and
more so about incriminating;
my dry eyes further
evidence of my
incompleteness.
and so now
Time has slathered itself
all over me.
my wounds have found
new reason for their bloom.
the floor is illuminated,
from both interior electricity and
outside day shine.
i am muddled and
muttering and
a fat orange cat is
on the windowsill,
looking out at its backyard
kingdom. i watch
The Office, the episode
where Michael Scott leaves
the show, and
i cry for
the first time,
in many months.
zakschafer.com 