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by Ken Pobo


The cat is asleep,
his body a bone bag,
his face a cave drawing.
I wish I were back in
Villa Park, Illinois,
where rituals are always
dull--I like to know
what I can count on.

Yeah, I can count on
the cat to be wonderful
since he knows no better.
He's not riddled
by excessive neurons.

I marvel at how
he pounces on whatever
moves. I don't.
I let things go.
That puffs me up, but
I remember a daddy-long-legs
I killed, a weed
I tore down just for pleasure.



My cats have spats,
fierce ones. Miss Margot
growls and hisses,
unlike Preston, who aims
his lightning paw. They

rumble, Mt. St. Helen's
about to kaboom. But
before the explosion,
they run around, fall
down beside each other,
ready for a lick, a time

to curl up. What moon
turns the tides inside
their brains? What sun
comes up in
four staring eyes?


"The Cat Is Asleep" published in OLD HICKORY REVIEW
"Those Two" published in THE CATBIRD SEAT

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