Concrete Poem by Geer Austin

A Poem by
Geer Austin

Concrete and Choice

How could you name anything
Concrete, people ask. It's so
mundane, not at all spiritual,
really offensive to us
and to the cat. Well, I almost
always call him Crete, I admit,
like the island.
That has okay connotations, right?

And Choice, people say,
is a lame-brained name for an animal.
Choice seems too
flighty, too unformed,
intangible. How did you
choose that name, they always
ask, and they laugh like they're
being original.

Then Choice arches her back
and yawns with unbearable
elegance. And Concrete lands
on the wooden floor
with a magnificent thud.
Concrete's gray, a short hair.
Choice is calico
green-eyed and fluffy.

Usually they coexist quite
unhappily, hissing and clawing
whenever they have
the chance. But right now,
Concrete and Choice are sleeping
together, something
they rarely do. It's cold outdoors,
the thermostat's turned down low,
and any cat will tell you-
life is about survival.

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