I wake up to a meow,
my new cat nudging
his head against my
side. As I look into
his mint green eyes
I wonder about the
person who gave
him up. Too sweet
and too brave to
never know love.
(He knew to come
to the sound of a
bag of food.)
Wiping the crust off
my long week, off
my meek eyes. I look
out at a tree in blossom.
I notice how many
apartments face the
tree. How many souls
staying and left,
smelled the tree
in its spring bloom.
I slide into a bath,
reading a poetry book.
Used. Ten dollars.
I get to a page
dog eared in the
corner. Someone else
loved my animal.
Someone else smelled
those blossoms. Someone else
read this poem. Felt like
I did. My environment,
this conveyor belt of
other souls. I never met.
How easily I’d trade all
my futures. To meet
them in their pasts.
I got to the end
of the marked poem. It’s
last words:
“But I don’t weep,
do you?”.
I looked at the dog eared page.
I heard my cat cry.
I could no longer smell
the blossoms in the tree.
I put my face in my hands
and then I wept.
Will you?
Of Poems and Places 