mr hobbs.

 

 

   Mr Hobbs, my cat, has a worrisome lumber.

   He lies on his back, faking leisure, but

   without middle finger or forskin

   I am certain he would smoke.

   As substitute he pukes on the

   hardwood and pretends, as

   a juggler, to forget the order

   of

   balls.

 

 

   We fake amusement.

 

 

   So he retreats to a different joint;

   In the loudest valley of the jingo,

   Waving his flags of war, like

   a republican. Waiting for scraps

   until the dead boys return,

   as he,

   with martydom on display.

 

 

   See. He belongs nowhere but

   the window in the big room

   and its a joke to stroke his leg.

   His eyes and mine, even in

   the dark, never meet.

   He carries the breath of my sons

   dead hamster,

   but without proof,

   both he and I,

   tiny in our metaphors,

   parrot love.           hder

Reviews

[Emily B]

Old Possum would relish every word about Mr Hobbs. I'm pretty sure of it.

When I talk to young poets about the difference between words and voice, will point to words like these. Your voice is gorgeous.