So Mom didn’t come with us to the grocery
store, but she insisted when a box of Grape Nuts
or Popsicles tasted off it was because we hadn’t
selected the box behind the first, that hiding
in the shelf-shadow was an object fresher,
superior, tastier, correct. The vet tells me
over the phone, “Lungs are like the petals
of a flower,” growing wider at the base—
Longer snip-span more danger more damage.
I want a patio and remote start and true love.
I want storm windows and a way to do my life over.
The gallon of milk in the fridge doesn’t expire
until Christmas Eve. In its cage it was obscured
by older iterations, cousins of lesser promise.
It was sour this morning.
