I can’t predict rain.
Arrives every so often
as I lay calm.
Maybe, biweekly
or every other month.

Just a slice
of caramel cheesecake
on crunchy graham crackers
thin, like her fingers
which could really use some Coppertone.

Ostensibly, I’m a pacifist
who’d like my own show,
but I know it’s a dream
like all the others
stitched in jeans she’s worn.

Cat No. 45 of the 500 Cats Project

she tried to take a peek.

the morning
doesn’t hide
too far away.

neither do
tiny voyeurs
in cold hurry.

losing time
and seeds
for big skies.

I witness
youth’s trying
and gawky flukes.

every week
she’s finding
gold in quartz.

Cat No. 44 of the 500 Cats Project


two clipped wings
spread across the ground
without a half-picked ribcage
through which one’s guilt
unfurls at the thinnest corners.

an omen regarded
cautiously as twilight echoes
of molars hitting repurposed steel
so everyone was warned
that one day, another will go.

with a message,
a warning,
a plea,
and rustling bribes,
for it is time.

fetching a roll of card stock
and etching our sins
on every line
though we know what was done
hours before it came.

Cat No. 43 of the 500 Cats Project


crouching rhythms wait
their turn before flashlight’s touch,
for patience is pure.

emulating peace
that falls in time with letters
sent in lack of angst.

drifting past critics
kept in their ironed blazers
who want the unseen.

pacing lesser now
and watching laughter soften
like candle wax faith.

Cat No. 42 of the 500 Cats Project