The Cat with its Blue
When the cat with its blue collar
jumped into my lap at the café
you smiled like a long tunnel
under a river so muddy that not
even scrawny street boys
would leap from its banks on hot
summer days. They say fish
wriggle there below dank waters,
and some have grown legs.
If you sneak down to the river
in moonlight, belly up to the shore,
hang over, holding your nose
with one hand, you might see strange
new species limping from island to rock,
their stunning faces aglow in reflected light.
If you've any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.