He thought everything was watching him.
(He never trusted the cat, fer Chrissakes.)
In spite of that, he trusted me.

He hollowed out items to make stashes.
Two years ago I came home to find
he’d hollowed out the cat.

I told him we needed to talk.  
That night he scooped up
all the remaining drugs,

stuffed both our shares of the rent into a red duffel bag,
chose a logo-free ball cap for flight,
and screwed for parts unknown.

I still miss him a little,
maybe even more than a little.  Things
were always hopping when he was around

and he had the hookups
for the good stuff,
the kind bud, the clean pills.  

Every time I pack the dead, dusty cat
with stuff I wanna hide,
I miss his crazy and how it made mine shine.