Words tumble over, clumping, clinging,
To roasting pans, potato ricers, caught in the nap
Of soft carpet, leaving me
Dawn opens slowly, with fog-cooled ardor:
At the hinge of the day, you have to push harder.
Gathered around him, adjusting
stances, backpacks, ponytails,
they listen past speech, to the buzz
of a soft-mingling evening.
When rivers and hearts overflow, they leave us
Without purchase on their muddy effusion.
At night I sink into the yielding rot
Of memory and happenstance, to be reborn
From fragrant compost of a squandered day.
The knife bisects, the juices spurt;
Still strong the victim lies!
To make a stew, some must get hurt
But only the killer cries.
I cook a meal for tiny wings
That farther than my feet will ever fly
And fathom not the breeze that brings
My eyes behold a glitt’ring brew
Of diamonds steeped in mud
That makes the mouth of man run true
And his head fall with a thud.
Grilled cheese and tomato soup sure beats a
Slice or two of microwaved cold pizza:
And yet in all but name,
They’re much the same.
(It’s not condensed soup I’m anticipatin’ —
That stuff’s from Satan.)
The Cat: A cheap triptych
The cat has flexibility
Far beyond what’s willed to me.
I know it’s so, but how in heck
Can he lick his neck?
The cat eats all that he can reach:
Some kale, a PBJ, a peach,
Chicken fried steak, a hot cross bun —
He weighs a ton.
Upon my troth the cat doth pee —
And also on my chair, doth he.
Why doth he this, my pretty lass?
He is an ass.