i watch her again,
like every june day.
into the shadows under the siris tree,
ice cream cone melting in her hand.
she talks to her friend
but keeps her eyes on me—
as if throwing her joy
at me, the stray.
wiping her sweat,
walking through the street,
telling her friend
about her new love.
walking, walking, never looking back.
something wrong with that smile.
her lips too tight,
her head shaking slightly.
even under the siris shadows,
her face glows—
UV-bright, performance-bright,
joy I don't believe in.
i frown,
thinking about that expression.
suppose it's cheap pleasure?
no.
too many twinkles,
too many endorphin wrinkles.
how hard she's trying
to convince herself
mammals can be happy.
...saying touché to my poor life?
nothing makes me dismiss
what I've concluded:
it was all facade,
all éclat,
all evolutionary fiction.
but she's already walking away,
laughing,
utterly convinced.
perhaps she should stop coming here
to her zone.
maybe, me too—
watching, judging, staying put.
mulish cats like me
should glean their own allegory,
find their own exits,
not this loop
where she performs
and my cynicism deepens
and neither of us moves,
until the ice cream melts
and the june ends.