Sadly, I pack Lulu and Francy in their burnt orange leather cat carrier. We’re leaving home once again and I can hardly bear it; the departure, the shuffling of belongings and hearts like so many worn dollar bills – folded, filthy and disheveled. I need to leave crumbs so that we can find our way back again. And “home” – what of home? Is home a door that I will ever happily enter once more? Is home just a worn and battered pissoir on a sad, lonely street, good for the inevitable piss leaving my urethra in a hot gush, a faint dribble down one thigh, and then vaporizing into a memory of a pulse. I listlessly zip up my jacket, and stroke Lulu and Francy’s furry wee heads. Francy stares at my navy suede desert boots and meows a “What the fuck!?!” I look down; I’m so befuddled by the misalignment of the planets and the careless scattering of the stars that even my socks are mismatched. I sigh, and lock the door. There is no whistling today, only a bellow.
Tag Archives: locking the door