in the house
and he was
wearing my apron
playing my guitar
and studying spanish
he was a dreamer
and wanted to translate
neruda
and make short films
of cloud formations
with pedal steel music
he gazed into mirrors
angular visage
his gleaming whiskers
his glinting eyes
he trained for a marathon
inside the walls
of the house
but he didn’t
need to run the race
because he had
nothing to prove
he was already complete
i saw him once
prancing across
the grimy kitchen floor
and knew this
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