Curious As a Poet
I am a cat to most things.
With nimble thoughts falling through
white padding paws I skirt about
My place on earth, as though it’s
a dream, a painted scene
except for me.
I am too slick to stick
to a boundless place
like this, reality.
Though the mundane springs
with novelty and perks my
ears so easily
life’s unfair and can’t think to care
of a woman fraught with dreams
or prayer.
I could love the sand
and salty sea
which gathers soft around my feet
thinking hard on words to please
the oceans’ rolling breeze.
But the water’s hands are cold and quick
To claim a life or render sick
The mouths that sing its praise
Such is the laughter of reality
When it knows not a bond to me
And moves without a thought to see
My genuine concern
I’m here alive with
moments to keep
my eyes transfixed
to this curious circumstance.
My pillaring feline
Limbs are still and prepared,
Ready for a beginning but
Aware of an end.
What preoccupies me this day?
Maybe the green traces of
frayed blades, my
childhood smell, my love,
that earthy carpet
that crunched under my feet
like water chestnuts.
It clung to me like a lover
On those lingering summer afternoons
and I was happy for that
But even if now I toss the thought
like a finite game
and I roll it about my tongue
like cold coffee,
My attention to that day
is stifled by the movement of now
and I remain a cat
wondering how,
I could be what I am,
an ageless spirit
ready to spring
but happy to watch
alone
Copyright © Allison Ballard | Year Posted 2012
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