Cat Dust

I am but a name in the game of
words.
With good thoughts, I collect
quilts of patchwork poetry,
filling my notepads with
expressions of the provocative,
me,
myself,
what I am in the limelight.

I have sealed my fate with the
public,
as someone screams:
“Lady, look, you’re a deep
brunette with a funny cat nose.
You look like you wear
silk hose. . . “

It sounds like you are waiting for
the plot to break,
like the man who gave you change
at the gas station
his image going dead
as it rolls away from the day’s glare
is a little too foxy.

Somewhere in my mind
the view is hanging from the
bright glow of streetlights,
giving a collossus of the exceptional
round of fire whistles, cocked with
chaos.

I reach for the Northstar, cruise
through the green lights
and become traffic as foreign as the
sound of baby rattles, tambourines, and crabs legs
into cat dust.

I’d journey for miles for the buried words,
sly ingenue
if I were you