last train to Clarksville

Weird designs on my arm. Copper butterflies on the breeze. Close enough to the sea – each new wave falls gently through me. This. And this. Now this.

The idea of explaining myself – a long foul ball. Like a well-worn, well-loved book – patiently waiting on the shelf.

A monarch butterfly drifting back again and again and again. For the nectar? For this company?

Perhaps the bloodwork on my left arm is a moth’s breath. Gale force nothingness.

Um – call me the chattering cat.