with apologies to Whitney Vale
and Hermit Thrushes everywhere
Are you a poem? I ask the cat
whose yellow eyes fasten to mine
with an innocence only predators can muster.
A tawny feather points askew
from curled lip
one tuft released from the breast
of countless identical siblings
that plume the floor.
Are you a poem? I ask the Thrush
all gular flutter and splayed wing
pressed among pale scimitar claws
red with triumph and expectation.
“Death decenters one’s life
but does not end it,” the Thrush says.
“Now my center is cat.”
Are you a poem? I ask the vacuum
Kirby bag drum-skin tight
its steely mouth drawing plumage
like a rhinoceros grazing on sun-ripened asters.
Are you a poem? I ask my wife
thrown by bagpipe roar and racing cat
from Billy Collins and his trouble with poetry
(which encourages more poetry)
She lifts her eyes and says without dispute,
“I am an unfinished poem
but I am the only poem that should concern you.
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