Cats

CATS


Cats
Walk on walls like words

And those words –
What do they do
‘Cept shoot off their mouths.

Jammed in their barstools
like candles in a cockpit,
Supreme in their immunity to Newton,
to Entropy,
to weakness of bladder;

Words, shooting off their mouths
Wielding fat tobacco slugs
Crammed in edgewise
between their browned chops.

Just words: Hank, Frank and Slim Jim;
Just fat old,
shriveled old,
low-down
Words
Propped up on their barstools like Weevils,
And breaking wind at God.


Written circa 1998; Revised 9/21/08