There are times I feel very close
to the humanity that engulfs me.
Times of utter life. The fullest
moments manifest in the shortest
hours of daylight, a force of reality
that propels existence. Those times

are fleeting, filled with the deepest
sense of desperation, maintained
through systems, my faith in which
wanes, even as I laugh under electric
light bulbs. Desolation upon waking.

Emptiness of waged hours. Wars
waging from static rates. I turn to
the routine of domestic, these late
hours. Hands dried, wrinkled, soft
from moisture. The ever thinning
trickle of modernity. Bitter sweet

accomplishment of my clean house.
Childish, I know, but innocence and
ignorance are hardly the same. I can’t
speak for everyone, who wants to
listen to me? My cat knows I love her
because I clean up her shit. I know

she loves me because she’s had other
opportunities to explore beyond our
interior, and each time, she’s run back
inside. She’s seen the world, found
a stray, the shelter said. She understands

her luxury, and she loves me for it.
I love her for her understanding. She’s
never tired of everything she doesn’t
work for. In fact, her gratefulness has
only grown over time. It’s easily spotted

in her big green eyes when she’d rather
not put up with my pestering, yet she rubs
her nose on mine, again and again, knowing
she’ll get back to sleep. That is to say,
knowing she can wake up when she wants.

All true love holds that hint of jealousy,
that something beyond ourselves we
can only find in those around us.