
JOBS, PORCUPINE, AND CAT
I picture you kneading bread
for cat head biscuits, each
roughly the size of a cat’s head,
with sweat in your eyes.
I write an article
about steel pedestrian fences
installed on a nearby bridge
to prevent suicide.
I write 65 people committed
suicide jumping off the bridge
last year and remember
I will be fired.
The politically correct phrase
is died by suicide.
I write 65 people died by
suicide jumping off the bridge
last year and remember
our cat needs feeding.
I picture you stumbling through
the door with biscuits
under your arms.
I write an article
about politicians who believe
people live or die
according to God’s will.
Their God couldn’t prevent 65
people dying by suicide,
jumping off the bridge last year.
Six hours later
you do not stumble through
the door with biscuits, you just
stumble through the door,
which is enough.
Then, we fuck like teenagers
as our cat cries,
the sun goes down
and I don’t want to die anymore.