The Feral Cat & The Bohemian

Perusing the stacks, loitering, 

a bit of idling speculation 

I might stumble across some lost artifact --

Rimbaud’s gift to orphans -- 

I came across this feral cat --

tail deep in Schrödinger’s radioactivity, 

a bemused Taoiseach heaving with every inhalation --

and my interest in dead poets was suddenly switched off. 

What, I thought, did a boy need to know 

to fake himself through an afternoon 

of quantum physics, marmalade and 

dandelion greens, a crisp walk along 

the river Erne, Slieve Glah to Ballyshannon?

Her name, for a start, I conjectured 

might open a window, some sliver 

of a rainbow to the pot of gold --

but what syllable to step out onto the ledge?

When she looked up, her smile fumbled 

into my confusion, and all I could manage 

was, “ Cupid and Caprice are hand in glove …”

“They met at a dinner, fell in love.” 

So, I’d met my match, this feral cat knew her Verlaine. 

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[W. Barrett Munn]

This one is so cool. A joy to enjoy. I sense a continued Ashbery influence that is working wonderfully well to keep reader and writer both on toes but off balance at the same time, like a ride at a carnival.
Good work.

Winston