Took me nearly a minute to understand
The head of yellow hair underneath his blankets
Like nictoine stains, something sick
Like greasy stalks of sunshine on pink kitchen floor
The face was like a kitten, shaved and roasted. Undercooked:
Deep pink and horrible
The eyes were swollen. Inflamed:
Hung-over, maybe.

And then through the soliloquy of my stare,
Another shift under his blankets
His sweet curls
IF Jack Forst used chocolate as a medium
This hair would sleep on my windshield
Blue eyes so bleary and red; I was tempted to pledge allegiance
He said:
"Hey, you."

And then the yellow head, to no one specifically:

"Hi."

And then I understood.

This was the way the world ended: an informal greeting from the lips of a yellow-haired roasted kitten,