Runt

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Ross Cagenello is a twenty-two year old poet currently hanging his hat in Burlington, Vermont with his three fur babies, Westley, Ellie, and Nooki. He writes poetry about the strange world we live in, hoping to someday make sense of our rocket-fueled journey through life. His dream is to find the true meaning of existence and retire to Scotland before his hair starts falling out.


​​He is almost a year old now,
and still not as grown as he ought to be.
Long legs betray a small frame
that moves too big
for what he is:
one-eyed and scrawny,
his ribs showing when he rolls,
despite all the food I have put in him.
Sometimes I’ll catch him
staring at the wall, which he aims to climb,
and watch as he feels his way up,
never getting above the hooks
I hung low for stockings in November
and still haven’t taken down.
In the nighttime I hear him
digging at floors his hands aren’t sharp enough
to scratch.
He yowls like there is a hurricane in his throat,
and once again I find myself
rocking him to sleep.

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