SOMETIMES YOU MEET SOMEONE
This morning I found our
cat sleeping happily curled up
in the washing basket.
A sleeping paw over her head,
two white back paws
completing the circle.
A cat is its own bed,
own house, party, religion, movement, union.
A cat is a perfectly irresistable word of fur.
People aren’t like this.
People are road signs on the bottom of an ocean
dreamed in words.
People are empty.
People are “For Sale”.
People are dead-end streets.
People take what they can take.
People flitter like moths around a long-ago moon.
They can’t help themselves.
Cats come and live with people only
when they’re tired, thirsty or hungry.
People have been wondering for centuries about cats.
Housecats eat their people
only when they are already dead.
Sometimes you meet someone who is just like a cat.
You find the meaning of your life
in the sound of her name.
You run hand-over-foot after her perfume,
but when you get her
her eyes change
your hands into shooting ranges
your tongue into sand.
She disappears like darkness in the night.
The only thing that remains
is an outside line of emptiness –
a wisp of smoke
brown marbling on a piece of white paper
wedding ring in your drawer.