proof that if you stop to write that single impression, a poem will eventually emerge…
Draped (working title)
You are the cat whose claws won’t retract
from the drapes. In the living
room there are windows like fish tanks.
For years you have lived on a corner.
People you know have to pass by,
have to watch
your perpetual swim.
Long maroon curtains, pale as blood
from a hooked fish. This is the fabric
that refuses to shield
you from winter’s freeze. Slight.
Insubstantial. You whittle your cold bones
until you are a slip, slide
inside the narrow rod space,
what threatens to take everyone down.