You notice when I tie my hands down,

keep them from floating untethered,

I rock in my seat,

chew on ideas,

hum because I’ve always wanted a theme song.


You say you like things single-spaced,

because then the words don’t seem

so formal, because then they swim

when you squint, and they look

like reality instead of well-regurgitated

clones. You say single-spaced

is more like the lives we lead.


I wish I was single-spaced.


I bought a metal cage

for the ferret I plan to buy.

The man suggested I pick

something more homey,

but the smell of the tiny

crossing bars reminds me

of the blood you left

on my kitchen floor

after you cut yourself cooking.


I bought the ferret.

His name is Goodbye.

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