Your Clever Glows Over
Everything
Situational
and stolen.
For my
own benefit.
From a
few words in
a book
that came in a
lovely
brown paper bag.
I
almost always throw
the
bag, the coverlet,
the
whatever-you-call-it,
into
the recycle bin (the
one we
finally purchased
after
living here something
like
seven years, right?).
“Just
who are you talking
to,”
glares Coco the Loco,
who’s
wrapped into a
skeptical
curl—all foetal-
feline
alert and everything.
And
should I even begin to
answer? I do, in one long
breath,
thinking about how
we (us,
some bodies) nearly
lost
you (you!) to the clover
a
couple of months and a
year
ago. But you arrived
home
like nothing had been
overcome,
not even a tiny
hurdle,
a C-, so ... alive.
Your
clever was never
as
apparent as it should
have
been. Whereas,
me, I
always believed
that I was the clever one.
