Going over flashcards of state capitals with a fifth grader, I am not (I am) embarrassed to admit I have forgotten a bunch including Vermont.

Dear Montpelier, I have no plans to visit (as of writing this at least) and if you're from there or know someone from there or have a nostalgic connection to there because you used to go on family vacations there, don't judge me too harshly for my lack of knowledge regarding your presumably great municipality. Based on name alone, I'm going to guess you can probably find a good doughnut in town, but I'm predisposed to this wager because I'm always thinking of doughnuts, good or not.

On a related note: I used to help my mom clip coupons for her little beige coupon box as a kid. Ever since I've thought of myself as a savvy shopper, except I'm not. I so easily fall for the sunk cost fallacy of buy-one-get-one-half-off. My mom and dad came to visit and they said the candle I had smelled like church. Like the idea of going to church, but staying home and eating doughnuts. What can I say? I might move to the middle of a mountain and start a book club. The objective for the book club would actually not be reading books but looking for rocks that resemble animals (and/or bad feelings) and being lovely and listening to slow then fast music while sharing what scares you most that is least concerning and vice versa. My friend stops by one day wearing a cool outfit and even cooler sunglasses. We sit atop the monkey bars, mouths open, intent on eating the wind. This activity is a moderate failure so we go home and dedicate the evening to rearranging furniture with our eyes closed. The thought being that this will, comparatively, result in an even bigger failure. As it turns out we sort of enjoy the way the sofa faces the wall and with the television set on the ground—having to stand over it and stare down to understand what is happening. It's similar to attending a very involved funeral but not quite. Right before my birthday, my cat experiences sudden heart failure. He is inside a little box at the emergency clinic and it’s supposed to help him breathe and if he comes out of the box they’ve told me he won’t be able to continue living. At least I get to stick my hand inside and pet him. There are a few other machines making noise behind me. It doesn't matter what anyone tells me at this point. Herodotus looks at me through the glass. He is in so much pain, but when I reach in and give him a scratch on his funny head, he still demands more. Even in the face of death, a good feeling is a good feeling.

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An earlier version of this poem was published in Issue 10 of The Arkansas International.