7th Of December

The tabby cat sits under the orange tree
of the newly mown garden.
He or she, is looking at me,
me with my window open and staring right at it.

We are held in peace,
winter is not unlike this moment
consistently giving you moments of peace
in the cold days.

The cat is off,
it’s chunky belly
keeping it from jumping the fence.
No wind,

it is hard to describe wind, when it isn’t windy
without using hand movements
and blowing noises.
Like I’m doing right now reader,

or listener.
I reach into my drawer and pull out a new cat —
one to go and sit under that tree.
So I sit in this moment for ever,

like a narcissistic magician pulling
white fluffy rabbits out of a hat
to just fill it back up with cats,
for me to live perpetually alone with a cat drawer.

To never age,
to become the portrait
of the tabby cat sitting under the burning tree
and the smoke rising from London.

The burning fox sits on the wall
And the mist clings to your kisses —

The skies bloom and explode into the black
As we watch Icarus fall

We ferociously ache for somewhere warmer
Orange trees drop their guns and dive for cover

You taste like hot squash —
But your brother tastes hotter.

Will I lose my head if I get struck by lighting?
Will it topple off dead —
And you will continue in the cold
Without my hand and head.

I want to be covered in your scars
To be smothered in your tiger suit
That I would use to howl at the stars —
Wishing that I had taken a different route.

But alas, oh lord, it is not to be —
I only have me in my firm head.

You make me want to break off
To run and find you
Pacing on the bridge —
In a triumph of black and gold

Burning for you
I hide and yearn
While listening to the thunder —
My Kingdom for your arms
.