Like when you wake up for no reason
look around
and there’s an ominous sweater draped over the chair.

The thing that makes you hate that girl
even though she volunteers
and is perfectly nice
to your mother.

That feeling you got
the first time you saw a cheese grater.

That time you stared at the lady on the bus
the one that was clutching
the sandwich
and you knew her
but she was a stranger.

When the hairs on your arm stand up
and go on watch duty
because you felt a draft
but your house isn’t drafty.

Future cousins
that haven’t been born
or thought of yet.

Some things don’t have titles.
Neither does my poem.