Black Cat sits there like the lion by
the bridge I'm always over and he oozes
cement from his eyes but he's not crying.
Old Rug stands up and his old bones
creak and his jacket is made of brick dust,
he brushes himself off and makes a storm cloud.
Taps begin to run and so do I but
neither of us knows who's chasing who but
they laugh and someone answers a door.
Curtains close and the old foundations
set again, I'm still running but there
he has his windows shut and I am breakable.
Scattered Cushions hug me and it's awful.
they've got me in a pillowed choke hold
and they begin to build around me
but my feet just keep on going