I was a dog off my leash, jaunting home to Friday with the sun heavy on my skin, backpack a feather and I watched a tire turn a mouse into toothpaste; Eyes thumbtacked to a destination that’s as much a mystery as where he went, way out past the night or the double yellow’s end; Chance could have faced anywhere else, the fog rolling out to sea, the waning moon or maybe even just toward nothing at all, I walked right past his organs baking on the asphalt with a vacuum in my chest, missed mother & cinnamon & wind, put fresh linens on my bed and dug my starter out from the back of the fridge.