The Cat's Meow
Age Rating: 10 +
Ashes to ashy whisker, dust to dusk.
I was a kitten dying to grow up
with six feet under mama's breast
but now I slum to slumber, to night's AM number,
dreaming of dumpster diving rat
awake in deathly fear.
Yawn to dawn eclipse bay window
full of tantalizing beagle hounding me.
I see through the good looking glass
where a fuzzy warm place is clear to everyone but me.
Exotic fish mirror ninth wonder,
dancing with liliputian lily living large
in cramped quarters thrown in the bowl.
I nip catnip in the bud just like my old man
having a nip or too on the wild side
when its a bit nippy out here.
Far cry of beeps back up close call with nine lives,
scattering scat near yellow tinged whitewall.
Trashy garbage truck flatten land mined with albacore can,
trying to squash pathetic wretchedness
as we lick wounded pride.
My bro and sis are king of the beastly day.
Hear our uproar!
Weeping tree rains, sorrow soars
over willow wisp who starve for attention.
The beggar begs the question.....
Why touch me?
An untouchable TB or not to be
with death's deft hand dealing hand
stoking comfort of whisker slur.
A car swings by
with door lock opening closing off the street meandering feet.
Side by side people jam my space,
a firewall of burning questionable looks flood before me,
extinguishing all hope, but it does water down
the hatch of robin's sky blue stream of consciousness,
whetting appetite for tweets.
Pungent geranium redden face of bee,
harmfully darting between bull's eye on a side of beef
where maddened cow lolls tongue,
not sure where to go as the sun embarrasses narcissistic one,
daffodil putting on airs of perfume
to unappealing peeling wallflower trapped in a room.
I side step troubled minds on a sidewalk for now,
never forgetting my meal ticket seasoned in grainy road salt licks.
Hungry I am, thirsty for knowledge beckoning truth.
I glance sideways now and then,
looking up at sideshow targeting freaks.
Crate slot of lame duck duck goose dangle,
tingling like so many belles around my neck.
This store fronts the best, a cut above the rest
among us whose tired deadening wing fall
dripping midair blood.
I am touched by all this, eyes narrow open,
hinting mischief as stretched mark claw resets, pawing food.
Tail whips up this way and that, blindly
as feeding frenzy is fed, infused with stormy talk,
smouldering heated word which spark imagination not dread,
while others are grilled with a burning desire
to devour food for thought, inspiring the blame game for bird flu.
I am lucky that they cannot yank my chain
like that poor devil there,
tottering over well heeled stiletto commands
where muzzled staccato growls just kicked in.
I have a flea on my back though as day old hours
turn 24/7 year itch, imprisoning time
where rancid exchange of good buys waver to urges,
obeying the mother of all tug of wars,
come on came on me
hissing freedom that fall short to endless good-byes
from carpetbagged kitty
caught up in my runaway ditty.