Page 36 - flying stones
P. 36
catatonic
late night, the cat paws the keys
and sprawls across the lettered board,
arousing the lazy monitor
when all the day’s lights are dim
and no one sees it
dreaming perfect poetry.
his words purr up from within,
recalling the sting of ear-bites
from hard-won territorial fights,
or the savor of old tuna,
newly discovered in discarded tin
fallen from back-porch bin.
in truth, his blind left eye won’t close.
his fur fades thin and out of shape.
his gate limps. his leap hesitates.
the keen beast will no longer stalk
where the frantic, wounded scent goes.
instead, I’ll write more poems, I suppose.
