|Squantum @ 3 months|
The kitten’s chin on my wrist
fevers with purring,
all night his weight beside me,
half the morning drowsing my lap.
Sit is what an old lady does —
tablet & pen, books perched
& tumbling at every side,
laptop on chair arm
threatening to slide
onto the pot of cooling tea.
In fractious moments
he bats the pen, doodles
ink on upholstery,
leans on the trackpad,
glosses a word in the line.
Other times, like now
he wriggles into the story,
wraps the poem around him —
comforter to my muse.
|George Hitchcock [UCSC]|
from George Hitchcock's Wounded Alphabet:
The piano-movers come in the morning
the piano-movers come in the afternoon
the piano-movers come to the house of Pak Yip
their bellies filled with roses.
In his gloss dome, over his comic book
sits my insouciant brother.
The sky fills with teacups
the tibia of children
& floral rembrances
What do you think, my brother?
Awaking at four sweating, the sudden erection?
The fat man at the hamburger stand?
The death of Mickey Mouse?
The sky fills with spoonhandles
Fire engines scream in the forest.
In the house of Pak Yip my sister lies,
flaming rosebuds in her loins.