Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

See and share Beautiful Nature Photos and amazing photos of interesting places

Read wine Poems Online

NextLast
 

Jeannette and her sixteen cats

Familiar avenue, follies in the midst abandoning themselves to the fresh-air moon,
lured by old hallway allies into the bedroom bay, where the garden will still be, with a 
season change.

The laundry turns, 
the night dries.

They harass and blame those who follow far behind, await a signal from inside to
let 'em starve, ignore as they toe past the prow of the porch, past the tattered 
drapes, tilting their tails;

old memory prints on window panes, that, at first glance, still have some taste 
evaporate from a distance.

The prowlers aren't afraid to be strays, and they empty into the streets with
ashtrays, living their own way, solely opportunistic,
without doubt;
they usually pay for it in the end, if they ever get a glimpse.    

And inside was a lifetime ago, as was her childhood, still stirring outside, roadside 
across Fifth Street, underneath anything, to fall slowly, and awake sleepless, 
remembering sounds of talking news.




At first light any morning, we blew smoke in the corners, a breath across the 
covered picture frames wrapped in winter quilts of old coats that filled the front room,
memory replaced with swamped cardboard and wet newspapers 
from the guest bedroom, and a mattress of molded mothballs. 

Those last few nights, her friends came to visit but they hand’t returned;
the well-wisher and rubber neck gave more than some passerby;


left and chose not to write, ditched fifty miles east, right at the bend, on the back 
fork of a highway river without a number.

© 2013 Wesley T Cutlip

NextLast

Comments

Please Login to post a comment





A comment has not been posted for this poem. Be the first to comment.



Back