old at thirty-five

she has three black cats
and plays Scott Joplin rags
on an out of tune piano
sipping aged malt whiskey
abstractly blowing smoke rings

she has three black cats
they share her bed
purring like men used to snore
she wakes alone now
her red eyes frighten even herself

in her dreams she sings
and plays Scott Joplin rags
like an unknown goddess
yet she knows her waking reality
is far less stimulating

for hours on the week-ends
she plays her melancholy life
on an out-of-tune piano
her neighbors never complain
about the unmelodious songs

friends rarely come to her door
though she would greet them
in a moss green bathrobe
sipping aged malt whiskey
and laugh at their astonishment

unaffectionate, like her feline friends
mealtimes are moments of solitude
she watches the idiosyncrasies
of life beyond her open window
abstractly blowing smoke rings



old at thirty-five
[2007.21.11...a]
an unmetered Garland Cinquain