stacked wooden pallets in the back of the warehouse,
housing desires of termites scurrying through the grooves of meditating wood
that splinter into thousands of pieces as they decay
into a thick vapor that seems to cover everything
once its gone
the cat that hangs out at the warehouse where i work
one time came up to me and asked me
why the bermuda doesn’t grow as straight or verdant anymore,
to which i had to shrug
and respond that i didn’t know,
i don’t know too much about grass and that sort of shit,
but the warehouse cat still wanted to be pet,
so i obliged
Fred Aiken Writing 