Why I’m an Awful Poet/Bad Moon/A Morning Quickie/I don’t give a fuck about where the comma goes, but that bag of cat food better be facing the right way next time/Acceptable, not Exceptional

Intent to write
I find the safest way
to turn my back
and then a pause.//
For Recalled Nocturnal Things
And outside again that strange odor
Before I can write my next line.
I could only hold
Til a scratch at the door
and a realization;
No one fed the cats and
Someone repositioned their damn food bag.
A nuzzle of appreciation
Scatters kibble to the floor.

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Filed under cats, dreams, poetry

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