August 22, 2011

What he knows is the feeling,

Waiting with his hands shoved deep

in the pockets of his

Anorak,

Winter in cold maine,  on the stoop,

(Let’s be laden with snow and

Fond, hurting memories)

 

There’s a bowl, cold cat’s food,

(Here, I have eyes,

I run on my own when you leave

Doors ajar)

He’s not fond of it,

But

He’ll put up with it for the light when the

Screen door creaks open.

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