in a latté, tracing an index finger
all the way around my left ear.
The boys from Texas are in town
with big fuzzy red socks over
filled with PopRocks and kisses.
A taxicab pulls up in under the cloud
where the “No Parking” sign floats aslant.
Over my very own hillside. Two men in suits
swivel their chairs around to face the winter,
point their fingers up at the sky. I watch a man
fill a pothole with black pitch, go to bed
dreaming of death like those across the street
dream of living. Sepia the Cat is interested
in my dreams. Each night she tries
—apparently with some success—
to burrow a hole into my head.
