At Least Come Say Hi

On the next reincarnation go around,
let’s meet under twilight lapping
corvid trees in an underground city’s
slum. Let’s not do the lover thing this time.
One of us shall be a child in an oversized
sulfured tee, the other a kitty
dusted by the zinc moon’s shedding.
 
The downtrodden thing 
shall be placed in the kid’s shirt pocket. Naturally,
the one over the heart. The tiny
stray, finally cozy enough to sign-
off on total neurological demise. (Kid,
things just die.) (But everything freezes 
at red lights, so why 
when we crossed at green 
it didn’t come back alive?)
 
Between you and I,
whoever has the most psychic pain
now, in this current life of lame, gets to be 
the fading pocketed feline.
And while I,
a clown car of woes, want dibs on
our cyclical Irish buh-bye,
the way you now,
book sand-down between beach towels,
let sunbeamed needles pop the cherries
of tantalized…tired….fucking…eyes,
I think I might be surprised.