My cat crouches on the windowsill,
chattering at the mourning doves
who cannot hear him.
The sun is coming up
and melts the crust of dew on the grass.
I don’t care about that.
I’m sitting on the floor, sipping tea
in a teal sweatshirt. It has pink and white
splotches, painted by my aunt in 1985.
How is this real?
The vase of lilies, the browning banana,
the silence of the doves outside.