Talked Out of a Poem

I am muse-walking, ~~ writing a poem. The phone rings - it’s my pal. Something my mouth says makes us both laugh. At the same time, one of my hands is searching for the image I was just about to find, before the cell phone fractured it. "Yea come over I’m doing nothing." I am almost touching a black cat in a dark room, almost see it evaporating on the threshold of nowhere. We exchange ‘see-yer’ lingo. Alone again, my mind reverts to being a heat-seeking sea anemone. Sadly, the unfinished poem has turned into a small owl, perched on a thin tree in the Andes.