Paper Cat
In bed tonight, I am too tired
to think of anything but the paper cat you bought me
from the festival in your hometown.
It is small bits of cardstock glued together
by children's hands and brought to life
with a Sharpie smile.
It cost you ten cents, and I made
a better one for free.
Somehow,
this small creation,
this child's child,
this mangled lump of joy,
ten cent scrap of paper
was the hardest souvenir to part with
when you left me.
I squeezed my eyes shut and lowered it gently
into the garbage bag,
its casket,
its cradle,
its home among painful memories.
In bed tonight, I imagine it resting
in the sleeve of your cozy olive coat.
It wears the earrings you bought me for Christmas
and sings lullabies to your baby picture
as we each doze off mournfully
in separate worlds.
YOU ARE READING
Moments Belonging to No One: A National Poetry Month Chapbook
PoetryApril is National Poetry Month, and I have decided, in honor of the month, to write 30 poems for each of the 30 days. A lot happened in my life throughout this month. Mostly what I wrote about was heartache, breakups, exhaustion, and the way life mo...
