A truck goes by.
One cat sleeps,
the other runs. 

I do nothing but watch.
I do nothing but tell
stories — some are even
true.

Was there a truck? 
I think so. If not, 
I’ll make it so.
Such power in lying
if this is a lie.
Such resolute power
in sitting and watching
if one can tell a story afterward.

The cat who ran knows this.
The one who sleeps might know this
or might not.

I can choose
the stories to tell
about the cats and turn them
into fodder. One’s sleeping in a box
and maybe isn’t even aware
that I’m here. The other one’s
ears keep twitching at the sound
of my keyboard. Maybe. Maybe
they move at the sound of starlings,
or in fear of the truck returning,

if there was a truck.

Schrodinger failed to account
for the observations
of the cat in the box
regarding the nature
of living and dying. He knew
the discussion was ridiculous.
He chose his story without asking
the cat for its view. The cat was likely
more afraid of trucks on the street
than such a story as his.

It would be nice
to know the truth.
Truth be told, I suspect
it would be best for me
to just pet the cats,
both of them,
while we’re all still here. 

A backhanded prayer,
a promise made in a meadow,
a body twisting,
a whole zoo of animal thoughts,
small-town bravery
in the face of big town
midnight,
a teacher rolling dice that nothing
will go any more wrong,
vacated bodies handled 
gently by lesser superheroes,
no victory to be had, 
no power to which to offer sacrifice,
no reason,
no reason,
no reason.

Say that phrase no one will admit they love.
Say it as if you are proud to say it: I don’t care. 

Say it with your whole body as you turn away from today.
Say it symphonically, as a string quartet might play it:  I don’t care. 

So much to think about when you stare at everything all day long.
So many people you don’t know want to discuss all this. Say it: I don’t care. 

Say it as if it could cure the poisoned air, as if our need to weigh in
has turned such an admission into Magick: I don’t care. 

As if your opinion matters without action, if it matters at all with
or without action. Let your tone of voice be your action. Say it: I don’t care. 

Give it a place beyond this one. Put it out, free yourself.
Once free, you will fly. Fly now. Say it: I don’t care. 

Eat better, sleep better, be more at rest while awake; make love
without overthinking. Stop fretting and say, I don’t care. 

You ask: but how should I push through the blood in the streets?
Dye your legs red and blend in with the surge. Say it: I don’t care. 

On the way home,
north on the highway;
falling sun on my left,
dim sundog in the clouds
to the right. Pillars
between which I roll
until I see the sundog
dead ahead.
The sun itself
has moved farther
to the left now, 

and then they are both
to my left
and the rainbow spot
once on the right has almost
come level now
with the nose corner of 
my left eye.

It’s my trajectory
that moves, not the 
sky. I know this —
but this illusion 
of change being
a destiny being achieved
beyond my own efforts
thrills me,
today at least.
One small joy
on this too often
untrustworthy path.
Today, at least,
I’m at peace,
moving between 
lights toward rest. 

You cross your fingers
and tell yourself that
if you are lucky
you will not be asked 
to open your bags
for inspection. You tote
too much of the forbidden
to be comfortable with that
if it happens. You fear
you’ll betray yourself
with your sweat
and be turned aside
for further investigation, or
be turned away completely,
ruining your last chance to 
get good and get gone. 

Or perhaps you’ll then be taken
to a stage, stripped, and told
to perform rationalizations
and apologies for an audience
who will say nothing as they stare
at the mess you’ve become,
all illnesses and stresses 
having broken through your skin
to manifest upon the body itself.
Once done, you’ll be redressed
and set back on the street
with your offending baggage.

You could tell yourself
you could try again to get by
but the line’s so much longer
than it was when you first arrived
here at this — station? terminal?
You can’t even say. You just came
because it felt like the way out;
after all, that’s what you’d been told
and the ones who told you seemed like
they had it on good authority.

The bags will seem
suspiciously lighter. 
You will open them
and rummage around
but you won’t figure out
what’s missing.

All this and you haven’t even 
packed yet. You’re waiting 
for a sign that it’s time.
You’re crossing your fingers
and swearing an oath
to take as little as you can
and still have enough
for the destination’s demands,
though you can’t know
what those will be until
you get there. What if
there’s nothing there at all?
What if it’s all provided
upon arrival, one of those
all-inclusive deals? 

Your hands are so cramped
you can’t even think straight
right now. You can’t uncross
anything about yourself 
after a lifetime of this.
You can’t just give it up,
get going, get gone. Not now,
not like this, or so
you’ve been told.

Heat’s off. Sun’s way up.
Just planted tomatoes and eggplants
are looking right
and upright, for a change.

Trash bagged and on the curb.
Recycling bins full but intact. 
Nothing got at anything left out
overnight, for a change.

Not a single dead opossum
or skunk on the road
in scent or sight, for a change.
The neighborhood can-hunters

banter pleasantly
as they divide the homes between them,
and everything gets put back 
in the right place, for a change.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary
when the ambulance arrives for
someone in the green house
across the street. But this time

someone is stretchered out — 
it’s been a while since that happened.
At least their face is showing this time,
for a change. Right up the street

await the tow trucks to move the cars
that block the path of the street sweepers
who finally have come to fulfill the prophecy
of the signs hung so long ago, no one

still believed it would happen; least of all
on a Wednesday trash day, can picking day,
garden getting started day, save the life of my child
day. All happening at once, for a change.