When I was young I never thought a cats’ sad song
meant real bad luck.
But then one night soon just past dusk I heard an omen wailing
that told me alignment with fate
of tripping, tumbling sideways in dark was in the offing.
And sly warnings from bush where invisible creature employed sounds entailed a mysterious lack of direction,
a faux motionlessness of indistinct
filled with slippery
a citylike indifference
to suffering yet bound to its woesome proclamation at insistent behest
of forces unknown, and that this
indigestive gutslack is a kind of
creepy shared ardour reflecting the uneasy misalliance tween feline and consciousness which out of psychosomatic misery becomes just that shared distraction leading
meheadlong intothedarkenedditchofplayful dancingrats.