Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, November 14, 2016

Sonnet #136

The cat insists on writing a poem this time

I ask her what she'd like to say, and she pushes
At my hands to drive them off from all rhymes
All keystrokes, just affection, purring thrushes
in her throat, the gentle knead of air, a flicking tail
She lives in a moment of imminent need
There's no remorse among the cats for when they fail
The only memory is instinct and muscle and breed
and what tiny training we managed to instill
Between the chases for lizards in the garden 
And the way she finds the things that smell 
like herself for her to lie and dream down in
If a cat's life can be a poem, if she could speak
Live for now, right now, is the only song she keeps

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