The world is a cat.
It knocks things over
that should be left standing.
It turns on you with tooth and claw
even when you are affectionate
towards it.
It draws blood,
pounces with unbridled savagery
on the weak and defenceless.
It has no shame, remorse.
When have you seen it
hang its head?
Yet, the world can surprise you
with sudden turns of affection
as it rubs against you
and purrs.
A fog comes down between you and the world.
Words have to scramble through.
A dog’s breakfast of sounds.
Turning the volume up on the TV only increases the blur.
Why does one sense desert you when others
are intact?
Every now and then yr ears pop
and the world of sounds : leaf blowers.
crows caw, the Harley revving up
across the road, the postman’s whistle,
comes rushing at you with all its
clarity and clangor.
I remember Uncle Bert.
He had had a stroke.
His mouth was always open
Though he never spoke.
He sat on his armchair
Alongside Aunty Pat
Who did the speaking for him.
She was good at that.
He once looked a film star
A Gable or a Flynn.
He was a dashing rake,
Tall, handsome, thin.
But now he is all empty.
He follows Aunty Pat
Obedient as a dog
Or a Welcome mat.
It wasn’t an affliction
like polio
though it crippled you
just the same.
There were no calipers
for crippled speech.
You had to hobble around
conversations
as best you could
hoping no one would notice.
They did.
When things went badly
when you were teased
you put yourself into
the iron lung of shame —
& stayed for days.
*pic courtesy on Pinterest
I’m sorry I said NO
to you
& you
& you
all those times
diminishing yr world
I could have done better
withholding affection is a crime
against the human heart
Back and forth the fly darts across the windscreen like black thoughts inside my head, floaters before my eyes, distracting my driving. It won’t get out. I’ll fix you, I say as I pull in the driveway, wind the windows up and pump in the fly spray, the little Nazi inside me quite pleased with itself.
Proceed With Caution, the sign said
But I proceeded anyway
& came upon a cat
On the cold hillside
Its fur
Damp with dew
Its head
Helmeted in cling wrap
& wished the hell I hadn’t
John Malone 