Words by Joe

a big breakfast,
and Tom’s cat,
him peering in like
a little lost boy
who’s come home to discover
his parents have forgotten him,
and they’ve thrown away his clothes
and his bed and his little red firetruck
and there might even be a new son in there
somewhere.

Cinnamon
sits poised to sprinkle
somewhere
over a large ceramic bowl on the countertop,
and Tom’s cat
opens his mouth wide and demonstrates to the world
the seriousness of his intentions.
he yawns.

somewhere
in the house a fat, cow-colored cat,
the new son, if I must say it,
watches at every window (7)
for his rival
to appear
and Tom’s cat
appears and the fat, cow-colored cat
shadows him as stealthily as a fat,
cow-colored cat can shadow.

and Tom’s cat,
before peering in like
the little lost boy
whose name he bears
at the sliding-glass door
with the swollen, wooden frame
and the rusted runners,
is little more than a brushstroke of
brown across the overgrown lawn.

Fleetwood Mac plays on an endless loop
somewhere
in the front of the house.
(“Rumours.” “No, it’s all true.”)
The fat, cow-colored cat stands one aloof,
sentinel,
at the sliding-glass door.
he yawns.