Hugo

Hugo

a protest is in order.

So much that people write on cats—

All the mystery expounded ad infinitum,

Saying, “Ah, that poem is a cat, and is so much more,”

then oblige a maudlin Lassie scribble,

saying, “There’s a good boy,”

have done with it,

And jump right back to writing psalms to their spastic god.

You sit, your tail fwapping in glee and speculation,

basking in the world that is your bone-yard.

Memory whistles to me this Winter Day

Last summer, when the days
Stretched themselves out a-mornings,
Yawned, chased, yielded and heeled beside the sun.
Pools lapped, pleaded,
'Til late evenings, circling, finally curled about themselves.
Stars
winked and swished their tails
and waited to Pounce.