Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Dudgeon

The dove skull our cat
left on the lawn
crackled under my morning slipper,
not so much tribute
as startle to the weight
of lifeless bird breasts.

I bagged the carcass
with the morning pet scat
and returned to make coffee,
"Did you wash your hands?"

Surgeons, too, must slice their days
like this: so much for art, commerce,
maybe comedy, conundrum,
or commonplace communion.

The convenience of lightning
striking us down to prayer
not as reliable as a tame tabby
baring fangs and claw.

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