It was great, the morning,
the east sun stark raving pink through the trees,
and the night kittens, full of fresh electricity,
batted the fern just brought into the house
from the patio because of cold.
The yard didn’t stay pink for long, the sun,
climbed into the bore of diffused light.
The kittens grew bored with the fern,
and were off for other adventures,
climbing on the now of my desk
among books and papers,
batting the toy of my pen
as I am trying to write this poem.
Sometimes the sun can be a nuisance.
Driving east at daybreak across flat northern Ohio
or west on the same road at nightfall,
the sun lying low to the ground
like a defeated torch that knows it is dying.
The kittens lower too at nightfall.
They curl on the couch ignoring
Lester Holt and his lame attempt
to cheer us up at the end of the 6:30 news,
their bellies are warm with canned food,
a form of death called meat.
Wheel of Fortune begins as they work out the feline
implications of the doctrine of transubstantiation.
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transubstantiation = the transformation of the essence of one substance into
the essence of another substance without changing the outward appearance