Irony looks through the glass door as you realize you have locked it behind you.

So many times you have been on the other side of the scratched glass, determining Irony’s next entry.

You lie on your back, just as Irony would, kicking your feet into the air.

Next, you will dig holes to nowhere, anywhere, just like Irony does.

You may curl up in that spot underneath your own
window to absorb the
sun and sleep, the way Irony will.

Irony is a black patch around a left eye,
a pink tummy and some polka dots.

You stare at the glass, but Irony isn’t moving. So, you don’t see her like she sees you.