catshipgrin II

face with a post-it note

grin.

cats hackles rise,

but she is unfazed

by this jealous turn.

indeed, not a girlish

grin but one reserved

as the wine label teste-

ments.

 

tasty face,

ponderously slow

open ocean

like jarlsberg- holes in it,

fall through on ship

into dark

place,

 

where the men have pitched

forks. and the soul sings

ABBA night to night-ish day.

 

that is where my ship has gone.

mast spake "you there, cat,

your stomach flaps for birds decay"

"yes" purrs cat. she preens,

feathers gilded grey;

blood oscillates to

swells harmony.

 

she, of the tacked on,

keeps on tacking on,

onto vile things with

names like "Stew" and

"Fred". Cat, though,

smiles to steal

out-turned grin,

 

firelight plays upon

ocean face,

cat looks at me.

my penis holds my hand.