Indoor Cats

The cat did not kill much.
Mostly, she stared
at her paw covered
in flowing white fur—
opening and closing.

The cat was clean,
but liked being around
dust-stained clutter.
She liked the way
pristine claws looked
against mess.

The cat was not an outdoor cat.
She didn’t even like the thought
of the garage, or windows.
Her world was carpeted:
soft and safe.

Occasionally she’d swat
a potato bug, juggle it
until she lost interest,
which didn’t take long.
Then she’d place it
in a special corner
set aside for such things.

When the days were warm
the grass was mostly moss:
a vast warm-green carpet
sprawling out in a sun-beam
uninterrupted.

The cat spent time in the window,
between curtains and glass,
watching herself
asleep on the lawn.

She let herself out,
explored every carpet
she could find. The cat
didn’t come back.
Neighbors were called,
flyers made, stapled to
poles and fences.

The cat came back
gray and red and smelly.
The back of a squirrel neck
nestled between canines
the mangled body
was missing parts.

The cat carried her trophy
everywhere, lacerated the hands
that tried to take it from her.

The cat spent her time staring
her paw opening and closing
dirty claws chipped and broken.

Storytime

He set his ear under my shoulder
tucked his knees under his chin
handed me a thin book,
colors faded—reds turned to rust,
whites yellowed and smudged.

Read this one, now!

I didn’t take the chance
to remind him
about the magic word,
passed on the opportunity
to enforce proper procedure
for petitioning adults
for stories.

I draped my right arm round him
gave him a small squeeze
while his little sister summitted my left knee,
opened the book, thumbed worn pages,
summoned my best farm-animal voices.

Creed

One Lord, One Church, One Beer

This beer—
light amber-brown
with hops wafting up
from a cloud of off-white head
as light emanates out;

this beer is not an escape,
a way of forgetting, a numbing
comfort, or coping mechanism.
When drank with a friend
I believe this beer is a creed
proclaiming that there is one
Holy and Apostolic Church,

I believe this beer
is grace: a visible sign
of invisible reality, the glory
beaming from the bottom of the pint
declares that ultimately things will be
better than alright.

I believe this beer is an acknowledgement
Christ is risen and ascended, and seated
at the right hand of the Father,
each mouthful looks forward to the time
when he will come again to judge
the quick and the dead—and
despite the frustration and anxiety,
the restless depressions, this beer points to
the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.

I believe this beer is worship:
one word savored
and sipped slowly,
Amen!