title

From my cat napping on a ledge
the world is aeon cotton string
and rigid people are swatting critters
in their selfish phrases.
the ledge leans
in my balmy kitchen
with olive sprinkled brocolli
as stars that wink Wisconsin Corn
to a crescent, sun-down sleep

my shutting
fridge, disinterested
with all the lowly livings
whose bloated tummies
pang the counter tossing olives
are the irises of infants who wont
be here past three