There's a sound calling inside.
It's a puppy in a cardboard box,
driving toward three towns over.
Panting in the backseat.
A pink ribbon around its neck.
Feeling the motion, seeing only that brown plainness.
Feeling the halt,
Feeling an upward rush.
Squealing with delight at newness.
Being set down on the side of the road.
Unknowing of this, or any wheres.
Hearing a muted rollick of rubber pass away.
Thinking it's play.
There's a sound calling my name.
It's the organization of microbes;
a clean surface.
Erased: the kinship of dust.
There's a sound replaying.
The open/close of the front door,
the 'Hello, Kitten.' of my
mothers voice. Routine is empty,
but absence is sheet metal.
It's April but my skin is still
akin to industrial paper. Mass
produced. Sheeny all the wheres I ever see
anymore.
This is desertion.
Involuntarily, Me.
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