Big Black Cats

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I use every little omen,
each step and muddied crack,
but avoiding them so carefully
will never bring you back.
If I abuse this ladder
like I have myself,
will it mean less of life’s
inconsequential wealth?
By not hugging those fine contours
of clinging wise, wild walls,
will it mean more bad luck,
and crippling emotional falls?
It could just mean that I dodged death
by a random, stolen car –
regardless, it all means nothing,
except you died, which I find bizarre.
Black cats may come to me
and weave me with their tails,
but they won’t ever convince me
disaster looms when time is frail.
I observe the cows all gathering,
forewarned by superstitious train,
I look to the sky, yes they are right,
here indeed comes the rain.
I feel my face, but the sad truth is
the wetness is pure, torrential pain.
And, as luck would have it,
I find I am crying once again.

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I had a cat, whose name was carved in hell –
his eyes would scratch sharpest
when evil shone from the two huge black wells
that he’d force me to dip into and promise
him things – things only rarely written in blood –
those things always kept him calm.
I remember he wanted a bird once, and so I got him
one. It was a happy little thing.

I had a cat, he watched the happy bird –
not one word was heard between them
except laughter one evening as twilight
rubbed its nose against my window and shadows
as dark as death evaporated against the walls
just at the moment feathers floated gently
from the cat’s mouth and he was deftly
swallowed whole by the happy bird.

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