Honey called T. S. Eliot 
when her car broke down 
with a clever sob story 
about being new in town 

I was standing outside the glass walls 
that she was inside 
She was watching out-of-costume 
ballet dancers 
But she wouldn’t see Cats with me 

Honey, in a jar, 
doesn’t like cats. 
I would’ve fixed her car 
but there’s a void in her 
that must be filled 
by T. S. Eliot, 
and I don’t know how to fix cars, 
and I don’t want to learn how.