Selected Poems
Wishing it was First Friday
At 230am, in procession
one by one, cats gather at far end of the kitchen
and lie prostrate. Each follow the leader to gaze, curious
under the oven. A tabernacle still with the light left on.
The unheard entrance hymn now over.
"Mouse?"
No sooner has that word been set free
then twenty thousand years of instinct
is loosed upon a sleepless home.
Dangerous predators prowl in darkness
howl against scatter tide of simple sound.
Another insomnia night comes ‘round
every human not standing, curses
wishing there was more whiskey.
Or lie, left to stare at ceilings and weep
until they must get up for church, to pray again.
one by one, cats gather at far end of the kitchen
and lie prostrate. Each follow the leader to gaze, curious
under the oven. A tabernacle still with the light left on.
The unheard entrance hymn now over.
"Mouse?"
No sooner has that word been set free
then twenty thousand years of instinct
is loosed upon a sleepless home.
Dangerous predators prowl in darkness
howl against scatter tide of simple sound.
Another insomnia night comes ‘round
every human not standing, curses
wishing there was more whiskey.
Or lie, left to stare at ceilings and weep
until they must get up for church, to pray again.
