It was open a crack, so the cat ran out

of the door, down the road, way out

of its comfort zone, perhaps even out

of this universe, until the time ran out,

and the aging cat began to slowly out

grow all the different ways to get out

of town. Turn around, he said, get out

of here, as if I’d give you a single out

for all the things of mine you threw out

onto the main road, junk spilling out

into the street, and then you walk out

on me, leaving my shirt torn, heart out,

exposed, as if ready to be cleaned out

and gutted. Grip it firmly and take it out,

wipe it off, try to get the stains out

of the rugged, grainy texture, out

of my brain, just get out.