Language Poem #347

Book. Curving sky. It’s a window. I can almost see the author’s face. If I pick it up, open it, read, my brain will hurt. More.

Two white socks. Someone made them. Bagged them. Shipped them. They lie curled up at the foot of the bed. Like a cat. But smellier. Completely potty trained. Cat faces appear in the washing machine portal, around and around like Bowie in space. Time for the hamper.