Litter-Box

“The sanitation process has begun,” I say.
“The process?” she says.
“The whole ker-chunk ker-wang beep-beep when they backup,” I say.
“What are you trying to say I am late,” she says.

This is not something that will likely register I consider
as she paces applying articles of clothing. It is damp and has been for sometime outside; sodden inside-out it seems.

“I believe I will paint a tricycle yellow today.” I say.
“So what is with the beep-beep?” she says.
“The garbage truck beep-beep keeps time with the tock of your heels usually for about a block,” I say.
“Don’t make a mess,” she says.
“Keep the tromb-wall height that of the hem of your skirt,” I say, “And triple latte.”
“I am not wearing a skirt ,” she says.

We have been discussing this scenario for sometime now.
To no real avail. The wall height is a minor issue.
We acknowledge such is the case with our own secret code.
Today is my turn to not be up to the task and laundry.

“I am menstruating and you don’t have a tricycle,” she says.
“I want one a yellow one,” I say.
“I am making coffee don’t make a mess,” she says.

The damp is obvious and pale clung to the window.
Her head has been shorn. I am not yet quite used to it the bald.
Something is up. I’ve noticed an odd lilt in her step.
Foot-wear jargon I suppose.

“Don’t let the cat out,” she says.
“There’s a cat?” I say.