The cats on my tin roof are sticky hot.
That's why I'm up there with a push broom.
The wide bristles work well, you know?
Because they're dead. They stick a lot,
gutter leaves in late spring and dumb smelly.
A wise man once said
"if you want something felt you've got to feel it yourself"
on the back page of a grocery store rack,
start side down to the right, in case you went there
accidentally and couldn't read without a mirror.
Sometimes you wait for rain and
sometimes you dance. Play the iffdler. Sunny side up and
white side down. Until it browns. And clarity turns
into another breakfast falling into the back of a spoon and
"I don't get you"s.
The fish have been high lately.
I think they know what's been up with you
and want to say "hey, you tried," but
it keeps coming out like
"more breadcrumbs, please, thanks."
I don't know when I started feeding them.
My eyes have been getting hard again.
Dispassionate, I can forgive. Dissonance, however,
sounds like a personal problem. Hold out the bag,
this one's pretty stuck. I can't hear you up here.
