I promised

I’d never write a poem about cats. They’re too pithy and trite. Too whiskery
and slippery, trying too hard to be funny with their cute feet and their iambic
pent-up energies. Ticklish as fiends, sharp-tongued as hunters. They want to be
trickster and lazy coyote all at once, to nip at your ankles and still give you a
half-glance of innocence.

The poems I’m talking about, not the cats. The cats are sly-lined,
level-leaded, pitter-pattering about with tongue-tripped meows
that slant off the page like milk-laden whispers. Lap, lap, lap.
It’s enough to make you close the book with a hiss of disgust,
and then open it again.

Who wants to talk about either poems or cats anymore?
They’re the things we take for granted, beneath our feet.
Waiting at the door. Dying slow deaths if we forget
how to feed them. Really who needs either of them?
Only the ones who

listen hard at the door, whiskered and wondered,
impatient for the hunt.



Image taken with iphone
Words written at dinner
Time Taken 9.5 minutes
Brain on Regency Card Games, what it means to dress up, dungeons
on something unknown over the loudspeaker.

This entry was published on January 28, 2012 at 9:08 pm and is filed under January, Poems, Portland, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

2 thoughts on “[28]

  1. ancient photographer on said:

    Joyously impaled on your words.

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