Let work light from your limbs.
Let the first rain catch you
unaware. The hair on your arms
rises as though your skin means to pull
from bone. Before you remember
your umbrella forgotten in the office,
remember the desperation
of your cat before you had her fixed:
backing into furniture—wailing—tail up.
When you get home, she’s waiting at the door
to rub the week off your ankles, replace it
with her scent. Maybe for a moment
you’ll be aware of an absence. But
it’s the weekend and the rain at your windows
smears the world, rendering only you clear,
in your apartment, where you stand. In this place.