You stir, sheets stick to your skin,
drawn curtains; shake off the spins.
A summit of buttermilk thunderheads
snap the silk threaded ilk from your covered bed;
a flurry of cats and dogs in Elysium,
but you’d even prefer the Devil beat his wife instead.
There’s no clarity in a mare’s tail;
can’t bear to see the day in shades of gray-scale;
exhale the sale from off the same scale.
You’d rather play jail than pay bail so you can pray tell.

And now I’m in the dark with a snare drum background;
hounds drowned barks turn heads, twiddle thumbs, and lack sound.
And a drenched cat just wants the home with the furnace:
the blankets, the treats, the tone; only earnest.
I’m learning.