Breadcrumb #338


If I could reappear an instant later clinging to the ceiling above trouble like a cat I’d still call out
for reassurance. Does this iMessage look infected? Do the poachers know my real name? Are
my sorrows still attached?

How unforgiving we can be. How thrashed. I’ve aligned myself with longing and worn regrets
around me like a sandwich board, and I’m doing that now, but I’ve decided that’s the past.

No more po-ems about fire, no more
parables of loneliness—rest easy,
ugly heart.

Only werewolves now.

Only howling to the kitchen so you rush back
in and do not miss the good parts.

Maybe a fake molar full of stem cells I can crack when under scrutiny so I could feel like I did
something and still retain my tooth. Maybe a kitten’s all I need.

This one time a man in an I Heart Jesus hat asked the kid next to him did I miss my stop


Did I miss 42nd Street?

“Uh Yeah”

“Why’d you let me sleep?!”

The kid shrugged they didn’t know each other and Jesus Hat looked up
and asked sir (I’m not even 30)
sir (or 29) do you know what stop is next and
I didn’t know where we were together because I was writing this poem and I still am but I’ll stop.

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