Still Bird

Still from the sill the cat peers
windowed in at the flightless
bird atop the grape pergola.

The cat flies through the night
but this bird won’t spread wings
not that we’ve ever seen.

Patient the bird still sits until
asked to fill out a form with pen
questions on feathers and hymns

and such: are you a sole
bird? how high do you fly?
are you a kind bird? what kind?

In what direction points
your beak when at odds
with others you yearn

for the sea and sing
a single note of myst
a story that obscures

your spurt in a torment
a torrent of thickel
breathfull agog gast?

Me and Midnight

I talk to myself
I’ve not much to say
I talk to myself
just like to say hey.

I talk to myself
and oh by the way
I put in a good
word for you.

When I’m out on the road behind the wheel
I talk to myself and away I peel
When standing in line at the DMV
I talk to myself as if I believed.

All around town as I walk down the street
I talk to myself as I meet and greet
After midnight and I’m awake in bed
I talk to myself in the back of my head.

Midnight is my cat a Persian Blue
she hangs out late shooting pool
down on the corner she curls the poles
finally comes home up the back ladder
looking for a hot cup of black coffee.

Midnight drinks coffee all night long
plays guitar and sings nine minute songs
If you’ve never seen a cat play and sing
come on up my back stoop after midnight.

And while Midnight plays guitar and sings
her songs I talk to myself all night long
I’ve not much to say but hey I say
I talk to myself and satisfy the blues.

The Cat’s Meough

The cat comes quietly a Sunday morning
blue eyes lightly freckled cheeks glossy
smooth silver fur tasselling corn down
lips oysters on the half shell half open
legs the dance of life waiting to erupt
on the private stage of her boudoir.

She walks in weird beauty this cat
on two legs with patience galore
knows full well her lustrous sheen
when seen in the crackling of old
magazines etiolates the cold celery
stalks flowering in the veggie garden.

For a cymbal cup of truth and trust
and what good has it ever done
her to have even one man shun
while another calls her gorgeous
rather have the cat in your lap
purring your fingers thru her pelt.

Out of Season

Barely visible
the cat acting
like a tourist
out of season.

Breeze so soft
blow & rain shifts
the other way
out of season.

In the grass melan
choly whose happy
sound the birds

coyotes laired
late in the park
talk in their sleep
out of season.

This too out
all up to snuff
toffee nosed

a pretend friend
bends to expose
truth its own pretense
out of season.