It was not a black cat
But a red rooster
That crossed my path this morning
On my way to gym.
I waited
As it waddled past the car
Oblivious to the honour
I had accorded it.
Why the rooster crossed the road
I do not know
Though it waddled
With intent.
It had the whole day
In front of it
Provided it did not cross
Too many roads.
You tell yrself
You’ve got to stop reading when you’re feeding yr face
That coffee, wine and honey leave stains
On the crisp, pristine pages but then you think, nah !
They’re the stains of life like grease marks
From yr fingers,
The collateral damage from reading;
Rain spots too when magazine’s are left outside,
Creases from the wind speed reading again
As though the story you found a bore was a real page turner;
Sometimes too blood stains from a nose bleed;
Marks like footprints in the sand saying
That someone’s been there
And, yes, had a good time.
I wish I could pop it in a bottle
This morning’s high clear chortle
And unstopper it when I’m low.
Such unhindered melodies
Hint of secret ecstasies
That we barely come to know.
John Malone 