Under the Access Ramp

Under the Access Ramp

Cane, step step cane, step step cane,
Around the front from in back he walks,
  His left foot matching the right, his left foot never ahead

He hobbles with a metal cane, grip handled,
Quad balanced on four black rubber knobs,
  It’s January and he wears a tweed vest with shirtsleeves under

Walking to the access ramp, the ramp that leads to the handicap door,
Where under he’s hidden trash bags full of clothes,
  Underwear, summer shirts, second hand, worn

Watching him paw through his bags, I fear I’ll catch ‘something,’
The sight of him and his life – rank wretched untouchable,
  Gasping weak – I’m losing breathe, I turn away

I have two coats but dare not give him one,
Have food for giving from last night,
  Yet resentment prevents my offering

Cane, step step cane, step step cane,
On the walk around back again from the front
  I pass him, we walking the same path,
as “Nice Sun,” he says,

I swallow, “Good day”

Untouchable and charity, two thoughts
Unconscionable,
  Immiscible to mind

I’m sorry
I’m scared

The Plumber

The Plumber

It’s the sound of water
Hushing through the loose float valve,
  That balloon arm that moves up and down
And regulates the water,
  That’s what it is that makes that sound

Something ‘bout the flapper stop can’t keep the seal locked,
Water leaks through, when low enough, refills by the ballcock

He climbs now up top of the tank
I’ve seen him bend down and jiggle the handle
  Some days he doesn’t seem so concerned
They say a cat will jump up on a hot stove once
  But of a noisy toilet he’ll never learn

I wonder if he thinks it’s mice holed in the porcelain
What goes on in that small cat brain is nothing of I’m certain

Certainly he’ll never figure it out
Now he’s standing on the toilet seat
  A few times he’s fell in and slipped
Carpeting under his feet
  Would give him better grip

It wouldn’t cost too much to buy and put in a new flapper
But certainly it’s much more fun him staring at the crapper

Bleary Garden Ode

Bleary Garden Ode

Something there is sleepy
About a weekend in April,
  Tall trees persist unleaved,
Faces remain pale beyond belief
Eyes squinting in the garden sun
  While pondering one’s lost sunglasses

Winter habituates weekends at rest,
Now little chores come most tiresome,
  Though not for the novelty of turning loam, or
Seeing Robins on the verge
Watching one’s worm brown hillocks grow,
  While they tenuous scratch at past Fall’s leaves

The last chore checked off
As a new list forms in the mind,
  Next weekend’s, unwritten,
While the legs dopey for lack of winter use
Plod over to a porch chair, where,
  The doze comes on with a sip of cold coffee
 
Pollen?
Up early?
    Catching-up the work week?

No, the cause is simple,
  It’s Spring

At Rest and Play

At Rest and Play

His back feet he kicks out,
High in the air, with no ground to meet,
Like steel traps his back legs bolt,
At something he dream-hunts, perhaps

At something small his front paws grasp
Though there is nothing there at all,
Murrs and low growls pull lips to bare teeth,
At what may be dream mice, or fowl

He slept with ease before his stroke,
Now sleep calmed limbs have been released,
His four paws shake and lash, I watch,
And witness his whole world aquake

From on a chair or on the floor,
I’ve seen him leap straight in the air,
Aerial pounce while sound asleep!
On all fours lands without a bounce!

While he’s at rest he’s more active
Than when awake, and I suspect
He’s not, to sleep, counting small mice,
He’s dream hunting great big horn sheep!

Snow Cat Mailbox

Snow Cat Mailbox

The force of light snowflakes is a cumulative menace,
Flake by flake they weigh no more
  Than does the willow floss,
Or wind blown maple seeds when on the wing

Bur when compacted with a snow plow’s inertia,
Tumble-churned in the vortex of that semi-circ maw,
  It is propelled with the force
Of an elephantine dump truck stampede charging on behind

Sending punch-ice bushels of slush with each passing,
Of which our mail box, but a light and empty thing, at its mercy,
  Is pushed off to the lower drive, 
There to lie half buried in the cold wet sand-scree snow

It’s post, stronger for the buried metal mount
Remains defiant as a tree stump after the storm,
  Open handed holding out its arm and board
Where once our box, now ripped, was nailed

And now it is the discretion of the postman
To lay our bills and letters by our doorstep,
  Out there, naked to the will of the wind,
Perforce to be as snowflakes born away

Thespian, the Cat who Broke A Leg

Thespian, the Cat who Broke A Leg

“What’s that walking on the stage,
 No cat is mentioned on this page
   Within the scene or dialogue…?”

“Ok, no, that’s Thespian, the backstage cat,
 He knows better than doing that,
 Stage hand,
   Please catch him he’s not auditioning today”

“No, wait! He’s perfect!  …
 Did he bring a headshot? Who’s his agent?”

“As I said he’s the playhouse cat,
Don’t know if he’s pedigree or stray …
  He’s been with our company for several seasons

Despite the frequent legs he’s broken
He’s our cast’s beloved luck token
  To stage-fraught actors’ needing comfort”

(con't after/below picture)

“What’s he known for?”

“Mostly, breaking into dressing rooms with serio-comic timing,
To oaths half-dressed starlets scream that defy ludic rhyming,
Of course, his ‘breaking’ here refers to the curtain
  - breaking a leg - wandering on from the side of the stage

Yet during a show when he’s walked out on stage
The audience at once engages
  So many times he’s stole the play

And Thespian here’s upstaged both Olivier, and Burton,
Only to find on the stage are no vermin,
Next then to strut off with uproarious applause
  While he kicks his back toes, mocking scratching dirt paws"

“But, can he act?”

“He’s a well trained cat of the actors studio,
Always in cat character, you know, when on or off of the stage,
Although he’s method trained he will imploy questionable choices
  Such as howling too much, plays death scenes in odd voices

He’s been known to pounce on ingenue’s feathered hats,
He’s oft’ stalked our prop birds, sprayed on gentlemen’s spats,
He can sneak through a birdcage, playing thin on demand,
Despite that his frame’s Orson Welles-ishly grand”

“Has he been employed on stage purposely?”

“One of Thespians’ jobs was that he was the answer
To an issue of concern for our fragile soft-shoe dancers,
If a dancer, dancing backwards, was to collide with the proscenium,
It was Thespian’s job to jump out in between him,
  and it,  bodily, though despite being squooshed,
To protect those delicate dancer bums”

“How is he, with the ladies?”

“When our fair lady cat showed up for the show,
Thespian loudly meowed, then began to howl low,
So we brought him to the vet to have him, well, ‘fixed,’
  Except there we were told our cat was not a Tom,
But that Thespian, was a lesbian …
  Our diva drama Cat”

“Ok, he’s hired!”
“No, she, sir …”

Cleaning Windows

Cleaning Windows

January stirs the restless gardener,
Though these longer days bring deeper cold,
  Earlier rises, later sets, the brighter sun
Dazzle in displays of monochrome and gray 

Yes, and I can outward look, 
I’ll plan new plantings by the book,
  Then with a sky blue cleaning spray
Wipe winter’s sleepy film away

Until with full illumination the snows
Upon my eyes photo-bleach the glow
  Of a kelly green foreshadowing of spring,
Its radiant blaze on everything

As spring bulbs planted yet still rest,
Mid-winter Earth I need not test,
  I’ll clean a window every day,
Abiding while winter remains