Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2011
My cat crouches on the windowsill,
chattering at the mourning doves
who cannot hear him.

The sun is coming up
and melts the crust of dew on the grass.
I don’t care about that.

I’m sitting on the floor, sipping tea
in a teal sweatshirt. It has pink and white
splotches, painted by my aunt in 1985.

How is this real?
The vase of lilies, the browning banana,
the silence of the doves outside.
after David Budbill
Sarah Bishop
Written by
Sarah Bishop
920
   Preston C Palmer
Please log in to view and add comments on poems