THE CAT IS ASLEEP by Ken Pobo THE CAT IS ASLEEP 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.
**** THOSE TWO 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 |