Neko

This washcloth is my currycomb
The movements are all the same
Rubbed in tight forceful circles
Upon your stain’ed fur

Well-loved toy’s dirty white coat
The coarseness of ill-fitting handsoap
You are not a real unicorn
But you are cleaned the same

How guilty I am for forgetting
Your scratched plastic eye
Staring up with a hope
I know but cannot name

Innocence is not a fragile shell
But a stain that faintly remains
Even after I cleaned you
But I love you the same

Just as I did in a day faraway
Bedside companion in goldenhoof’d play
Tattered bow round our necks, in the mirror
Like an unspoken name

If you’re not a real unicorn
Well, neither am I

Neither am I