TROPOSPHERE

Poetry Picnic

d'Verse Poets Pub

There's wispy clouds 

morphing slowly into

some other shape--

some other beingness

right before your eyes.

Not like your life, which

does it behind your back.

The birds are doing strictly bird

things, they don't give a crap

about you and me, unless its to splat

some on top your head

And off the top of my head

I'm rehearsing what I might say to you

tonight, if you ask about her, and why

it all turned to shit so quickly, and

I'll just say that she was the

prima donna type, and me,

just a casual guy who doesn't sweat

the small stuff--and I think it was

'cause I didn't bow down to 

her, or even curtsy, somewhere

along the way. Not really knowing,

but banking that you won't be

the same, but hey...

Sitting on the porch, I spot

the feral cat who lives underneath

the house, heading off on his mid-afternoon

hunting expedition. And when I think about

moving from here, I think about

where would he go in this 

stark coyote land?
There's a bowl of water that I set out.
Never food. 

He's lean, but he's a survivor,

and I'd never want to turn
a wild thing into something less.

And I glance up at those birds on a wire--

heads down in a heartbeat--

and off to who knows where,

'cept that it's someplace else, as

I languish here, dreaming of 

Adriatic whores, and some way to 

attain that kind of altitude.