Jimothy
On Ballard’s quiet concrete edge,
you pause a low gray sphere of fur and bone,
spine drawn short by chance, not cruelty.
No collar, no cage, no zookeeper’s key.
Just you,
wild-eyed and wary,
sniffing the border where rug meets stone,
claws clicking like small black seeds.
The world found you anyway.
Phones lifted, videos spun outward,
and suddenly a city claimed you
without ever touching.
You ask for nothing.
No treats, no stage, no name you chose.
Yet here we are
thousands learning the shape of difference,
how a body can be bent and still belong
exactly where it is.
Run on, little sovereign.
Keep your secrets in the hedges,
your slow, determined waddle
under moonlight and porchlight both.
We only watch,
and promise
to leave the wild in you untouched.
🦝