Cats Not the Musical
Cockroaches backstroke lazily
in pools of condensed milk.
Stacked newspapers pile up,
yellowing ingrained tabloids.
Her bed has a curved spine,
her couch is a witchery shaped coven,
a semaphore center for twitching tails.
At her whirling core, she is mad,
the way angels go mad,
with bright-eyed ecstasy.
The cat food cans are collectible,
labels brown in a mold-tinted twilight
all else decays
with the half-life of stale urine.
She calls her pink-tongued children
by secret names,
names handed down by necromancers
to generations of neurotic felines,
cackles, while she sleeps, spinning fur balls
the size of small planets.
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