It started with a
Paula Frazer song ,
when you said
the pedal steel
was ever-grating
on your hearing ,
like the wauling
of a cat
in fervent heat.
It’s why you refuse
to listen to Country, despite
Beyoncé’s Stetson,
latest Grammy win.
The wipers
on our windshield
are like the cat who
spies the robin
near the window,
the reciprocation
of its jaw, its splintered
meows of want.
You say I’m like a kitty
while you stroke me
on my stomach, tenderly,
that I need to
perfect my purr. I’d only
cleared my throat.
There isn’t a way for
phlegm to sound so soothing.
You spot me in the night,
writing all this down
without a candle
on the desk ;
the quaking , up-down
frenzy of my pen. Only a cat
can see well in
the dark. Adding my ears
jerked 90 degrees
the very moment
that you said it,
noting my moustache—
like the whiskers
Toby had, sliding stealthy
along the wall when
you were young , snaring
the chubby mouse
that somehow reminds
you of your Aunt,
the one who stepped
on Toby’s tail
while he was hunting ,
for the jay near
the rosemary bush,
dashing into the woods
to never be heard
from ever again.
Andreas Gripp
February 4, 2025
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