There is a boy who walks down the street,
9th street to be exact, my street to be exact.
He pushes a stack of buckets
on a little red wagon.
There is a bell that rings,
sounds like a cat collar,
jingling along.
I pass him by as I walk down this street.
I glance quick, sharp,
eyes flashing like a bird's eyes,
gleaming and metallic.
I try to find the source of
that jingling, tingling, ringling sound.
But I cannot find it.
It eludes me, it escapes me.
I look into his face, look into his eyes,
even quicker than before,
but nothing is revealed.
So instead I imagine a bundle of cats
inside this stack of buckets,
all clawing, purring, mating, scratching,
fighting their way out.
All madness, and sadness, and a little bit of badness,
but good enough to want freedom.
To want out of the bucket and
into the world.
I imagine myself walking past this boy,
knocking over the buckets,
freeing those purring, mad
cats, and laughing as they
scamper away, damp and dismayed,
but finally, finally free.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC
There is a boy who walks down the street,
9th street to be exact, my street to be exact.
He pushes a stack of buckets
on a little red wagon.
There is a bell that rings,
sounds like a cat collar,
jingling along.
I pass him by as I walk down this street.
I glance quick, sharp,
eyes flashing like a bird's eyes,
gleaming and metallic.
I try to find the source of
that jingling, tingling, ringling sound.
But I cannot find it.
It eludes me, it escapes me.
I look into his face, look into his eyes,
even quicker than before,
but nothing is revealed.
So instead I imagine a bundle of cats
inside this stack of buckets,
all clawing, purring, mating, scratching,
fighting their way out.
All madness, and sadness, and a little bit of badness,
but good enough to want freedom.
To want out of the bucket and
into the world.
I imagine myself walking past this boy,
knocking over the buckets,
freeing those purring, mad
cats, and laughing as they
scamper away, damp and dismayed,
but finally, finally free.