Skip to main content

Portrait of a Cat Bathing

The cat bathes with gravity
in a taffy of light
pulled from our star
and knotted to a home made afghan,
a hand-knit event horizon.
A cat bath is an infinite Sunday
condensed into a self-absorbed mass
of luxury and fur.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Love

Unbroken smooth between before after bruises bashes and shatters Beyond humid shocking kisses rather a cool lasting that matters. You are the one safe place I know. Fingertip gravity cheeks to lips Returning coming going and home Never leaving steadfast praying grips the exploding expanse of a poem. You are what I will never give up. Arlington to Golgotha, offices to factories Shoulder in, eyes forward, chin up Quiet unspoken shared stories lingering lost ring of a coffee cup. You are my favorite ghost. (written for One Single Impression) http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/
7 comments
Read more

Holiday Tables

Ours is a song of holiday tables. Clattering chatter of our dining room, Wedding china, and shared fables. This is the history of the baby boom. Clattering chatter of our dining room “Remember?” “No, not him, he’s dead.” “Oh, yeah, too bad. Cancer, I assume.” Auntie Vera remembered a good book she’d read. Remembered? Better remembered than be dead. Uncle Jack’s scotch needs more ice. He has to drive.  His face is looking red. John offers his best Republican advice. Uncle Jack’s scotch needs more ice. Good buddy Bain helps clear the dishes. Pat’s telling a story. We’ve all heard it (at least twice). Jesus! Is it Easter or is it Christmas? Good buddy Bain helps clear the dishes Oh God! Who can eat cake? We’re too full. Around here, it’s like the loaves and the fishes. Cathy knitted that scarf, real New Zealand wool. No way. Can’t do it. Can’t eat, too full. “Yes, Sinatra was great but Elvis was better.” “But      "My real name is Mister Earl”, in the lull.   ...
6 comments
Read more

Bury Me In Turquoise

Evening was spying from the apple orchard the first time I opened my eyes under Great-Grandma's turquoise afghan I heard my parents dancing in the kitchen. A little later, Grandma would announce evening across the yards to end our game one out, two on and the inning was over in a dash to clean our hands before Grace. Evening became an exotic land; the home of sex and sin and petty vandalism to be invaded by silly boys armed with hormones looking for something pretty to hold on to. Evening starts when I put my briefcase down. We share it with the salad bowl and laughter. It is the safest place I know in our golden little home. The sound of evening is in my daydreams in the muttering of its nightclub clientele beneath a boozy saxophone and cocktail clinks. It sounds like sequins and purple. Evening will wait outside the church when my son carries me on his shoulder past the bagpiper and into St. Rose's. Bury me in turquoise and strike up the band. (t...
4 comments
Read more