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.
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.
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.
