Screamed at me at the kitchen sink, I’m munted already: “SEVEN HOURS OH SEVEN HOURS” worked long and hard and I didn’t do shit. All out of nowhere, I didn’t say a word, dinner was like that, toned greasy chicken with the bone in and big man squawking about my weak skin and meager hide.
Flash on, driving drunk, stupid, stupid. Eight, nine passes, at ten retorts in my head, get angry, smash my face against the wheel, punch the window. Poor girl in green, hood up for the rain – raining for days – sees everything and puts out that cigarette and drives away.
Hours later, a parking lot. Why? Why? I’m sleeping or dazed or inconvenienced by the bright light shining in through the windshield, shining by a lamp up there somewhere, glazed refract by inches of rainwater, pat. And I hate this place.
I have to think, have to think, to think, think too much is expected of me. Toys gone under the rug, when I wipe I think of the shit, not to clean, just there’s shit and I’m doing something with shit. Molded into shapes just to flush away under incontinence and, mind me, a dead cat who I can still smell.
Litter from years back still on the ground where she was, pressed hard into the spider crack corners I can feel still between my toes and, god, what a good feeling that feeling is to feel kitty litter between my toes.
Seats down, wheel’s up, security van trounces by with spinning yellow lights, but my head’s too low to see and I fall asleep with neck strain. I dream of the shit and wiping and wiping and there’s my cat, staring with dumbass eyes, not moving a bit. Hey cat. Not moving a bit. And I pet her.