When Erwin took me home in the cardboard box
the shelter handed him, he wondered whether
I was asleep, awake, a cat, a fox,
a rabbit, rat, or all of those together.

Plenty of pinholes let me breathe enough
and hear enough to discern his nervous breathing.
The car was quaking, bouncing over rough
and bumpy gravel. Just a kitten, teething,

I nibbled on the cardboard. In a while,
the hole grew large. I scrambled out and crept
beneath the seat. After the final mile,
he opened the box. He laughed and then he wept,

did both at once—a sort of superposition—
till, in one world, I leapt upon his lap.
But in another, as if without volition,
I bolted from that strange, surreal chap.

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