I am holding it in my hand
furry with your desires and my ambivalence.
You are looking at your shoes
and how worn they make the sidewalk look
on a day as luke, puke warm as today.
The rubber soles want to seep into concrete
like the puddle I have become beside you,
when I imagine myself cool.
What did you name it?
Something from a cartoon
because this is an animal and it needs to be shown
on Saturday mornings.
I pet it with my pinkie finger,
not my others because of the smell,
and I can see your silver smile, though I don't show.
Your legs are scratched now
and you sit down beside me, saying
it eats carrots and lettuce.
I can't even find its eyes.
I don't want you to tell me where it poops.
I just want you to tell me if you feel
when I brush my scabbed knee against yours.
Summer won't begin and neither will you
till we both lose our braces
and you can talk about a species other than this one.