Sun Is Cat Poetry

At the middle point of the last days of autumn my cat

texts me poetry. Saw a bird… effervescent. Sunset

today is rich as Valencia orange cake topped with

blueberry compote. I dreamed I was trotting through

the sweetgrass and my brother was coming home.

I dreamed the capitalist institutions that keep you

from me were poised to collapse with the well

-timed flick of a smoke tabby tail. You see, this

is still poetry. My cat is all about shouting at

fascist systems of oppression, like landlords and

Form 21 and structured mealtimes. Trickle-down

tuna prawn broth. At noon my cat eats sunbeams

belly up, paws akimbo, white tuft of her tummy muse

for the ouroboros of poets who watch my stories play

out, like. Like. I want to be loved right. Most of your

poems could be much better, my cat texts me, if you

closed down your hand computer and looked outside.

But I don’t care, baby darling. I don’t care. It’s not like

I’m making a living off this.