they’ve caught us again.
or at least pawing
at limbs quick to break
as wind chimes somehow
get the idea that they could muster
volume in voice, a shout that quiets the town.
hide another crumb beneath these dry leaves
and nod your head for every single ant
who defies these jagged pebbles
that spin and mar the surface
not belonging to red hoods
of cars, nor old sweaters.
underneath, it’s cooler.
Cats No. 93 and 94 of the 500 Cats Project
cracked clay sings cautiously
as calamine calls the crybaby
to clamber: using hands, feet
colliding with homegrown hangovers
and throbbing cuts ‘cross the ground
for collecting pills
does correlate with unforgiving gradients,
constellations dashing away
to conspire against invented laughter
and the clamor heard in kitchens
fraught with the craziness of
provincial, coincidental gossip.
Cat No. 70 of the 500 Cats Project
This is what they call a “potato.”
an image obviously snuck away
with a mobile phone, in poor lighting.
but I don’t mind.
This is the norm.
It’s either this or sweet n’ sour chicken.
But, I don’t mind either.
Watch me from that bench,
snuggle me whole and cheerful.
do whatever you need to do.
before 8am tomorrow.
I will likely be here.
a yellow-eyed potato,
sleeplessly sitting on this bumpy floor.
*Cat No. 9 of the 500 Cats Project