Just got that look out of you,
the one my cat gives me 
when I pet the spot she 
just cleaned so diligently
with sandpaper tongue.

Not again, I hear you thinking;
it’s scribed in the arch of your brow.

It’s been six days on the wagon
and I’m being dragged behind it now,
hanging on to the undercarriage
by a teardrop of hope
and my eyes locked with yours.