the day I waxed
was the first day of spring.
my fur had grown in
thick: intricate.
I considered leaving it and
staying in my cave
but no, I thought
I need to emerge
someday,
as pre-pubescent
as the pretty ones that all the
bad boys pick.
I’m brave, I can take it:
the burn & the drip & the rub &
stench of scorched oil & oranges—
and then the rip.
at the end of that first long
sun-dripped summer of
sangria-dregs & scratching
itches, I had an inkling that
the adaptation to humanity
isn’t all it was
cracked up to be.
yes, the offending pelt is history—
but so is
the rest of me.
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