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.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
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.
Request permission to use this poem