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.