Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Impass (Poetry) by Alice Folkart

by Alice Folkart


The cat has put on gloves
and shiny black shoes
to come out on stage,
shuffle off to Buffalo,
sing a solo duet
in a way that Mozart
would have liked,
only with just a bit more salt.

He's such a show off.
Comes from being the runt
of the litter, last one born
last to be licked and fed.
He stares hard at me,
as if to say, 'Don't you know better?'
I stare back and purr
to tell him, no, damn it, I don't.

A feline-human impass.
He lights the lanterns,
locks the gate against rats,
and assures me that my lack of sense
doesn't change his feelings for me,
then lies down to read the paper.
I hope he doesn't want to dictate
another letter to the editor.

Author bio:

Although she lives close enough to walk to the beach where she could write under a Mango tree, Alice Folkart prefers the shade of her lanai in the little town of Kailua on the Island of Oahu. The constantly-changing sky, the trade winds, the chatter of her neighbors, the audacious Myhna birds on missions of their own making, give her plenty of ideas and images to work with in her poetry and short stories.

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