The stray cats around here are
all six-toed, nerve-endings that
double as spiritual figureheads
for our foregone factory town.
Straddling our familiar, slanted
rooftops, their unclipped claws
cleave towards the rusty eaves,
like loose nails towards bare feet.
They scream their loud love into
storm drains, until God himself
promises not to act too rashly, or
otherwise beyond comprehension.
Like transcendent popular music,
they emit a tactful hum, like
some sort of groovy, cosmic ray,
dutifully calling Heaven out.
No comments:
Post a Comment