Thursday, 5 April 2012

5: Tthyep


The sardine tin kitchen kitten
licks your finger with
a velcro terry tongue.

His purr a stick on the
spine of the wooden frog,

his lick a tthyep,

his eyes wide
yellow moons hung on autumn’s
horizons.

The kitten counter-leaps
his shower puff feet and

flicks a tail like a handkerchief
from a train bound for Paris.

Au revoir, ma cherie. You know,
there are other callers in those cobbled

alleys. In the kitchen you are left alone,
still yawning by the percolator.

Sad puddles of brine.

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