A pack of wolves is called a Mozart.
A pack of hotdogs is called a Sincerity.
I rolled my memories of you up in a carpet
and put them in storage. Mothballs
for a ring. Plastic for a shining tomorrow.

I’m going to walk to town to show
that I remember the way. I’m going to move
into a Dollar Tree and pretend to be made in China.
I never learned to play a champagne flute.

I keep my toes clean. I’m reshooting my life
as a romantic comedy. I’m recasting it
with someone who isn’t you. Maybe someone
prefabricated in China. Maybe someone

who appreciates a good carpet. We’ll eat
hotdogs in the park and feed them to the wolves.
They need all the help they can get
with the current state of conservation efforts.

I ate bear until I became bear. Digested
by crows and shunned by the rich.
Berries and salmon for breakfast.
The slower friend for lunch. Nothing
is the way they told us it would be,
and yet we blame ourselves.
I wandered the mountains until I found
a man lonely enough to be myself.
We played gin rummy, tiddledywinks,
and I always cheated. He was a wolf,
or at least was eaten by one. Sometimes,
I suspect everyone alive is dead
or pretending to be. This explains
the nature of the crepe, which dares not
rise to heaven no matter how soft
those lutes appear. His fur was worn
brown and full of faded surprises,
like the sun on a Texas birthday party.
I’m still waiting to hear back from
his lawyer on whether we’ve got
a case with this thing or have to keep
on living this way, if you can call it that.