Zooey
is named after a book
that he hates.
He is thin and lanky,
twice as tall as his
dad he rarely sees, with
hair that is permanently tangled
no matter how many times
you comb it through.
he has dark liquid eyes:
cut like orange slices,
only not as sweet;
like dark, crunchy chestnuts
in the shape of almonds
only not as warm;
like a Siamese Cat
only he's more of a dog
kind of guy.

his house
doesn't feel
like a house at all
it's more of a art gallery,
white walled
and stone quiet
boundless space in-between
that says do not touch anything.
his room doesn’t belong to a teenage boy
it belongs to an adult
a lawyer, a doctor, a priest
neat and clean and pressed
like Sunday's best clothes
only with no wrinkle,
no stain, no blemish
to iron in the first place.



but the thing that
stands out the most
are the dogs
the endless hordes of them
swarming the glass doors outside
like bees, only louder.
the thousands of them that pile into the room
when he opens the door
barking, yelping, clawing
over the pants of his uniform,
like children begging a parent
for another turn
another ride
another hug.

we exchange
cards of blank stares
and dumbfounded silence,
still and steadfast
like rusted tin.
but oil squeaks into me:
are these yours?
and movement creeps onto him:
a muffled sob above the yelps and bays
i don't know what to do.
I used to let them be
Maybe they would disappear
If I just let the sleeping ones lie
Maybe it’d all just go away
I don’t know what to do anymore.
they just keep on coming
and coming
and I can't
stop them.