Eulogy for Floyd

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4.25 Eulogy for Floyd

Light the matchstick torches!
Bang the Hollow Cans!
For Floyd the King of Rats is dead
At the hands of the humans!

I’ll tell you my friends about dear Floyd
Who was smarter than a cat
And just as big in size
His coat was lustrous, thick, and grey
He had bright brown beady eyes
The glue traps never stopped him
Though they ripped out belly fur
He ate the cheese off snapping traps
He hissed at all the curs

Light the matchstick torches!
Huddle in the night!
For Floyd the greatest rat is dead
He put up such a fight

My fellow rats are sad this day
For Floyd finally succumbed
To the cruelest of temptations
To the smallest of the crumbs
While sniffing bones left in the sun
He met his tragic end
As with a snap the lights went out
In those beautiful brown eyes
And so was Floyd undone

Light the matchstick torches!
We’ll have a garbage wake
In honor of our leader Floyd
Who made one big mistake!

****

Yeah, our apartment building has rats. One rat in particular, sometimes seen but not caught until recently, stood out for me.

I stuffed a plastic bag into the hole in the wall – it disappeared.
I glued a bean can lid to the hole – it eventually got pushed off
I laid down a glue trap – it got pushed away from the hole
I laid down a snap trap with cheese – the cheese disappeared off the un-sprung trap
I cleverly put a large glue trap in his “bathroom” (my unused guest vanity drawer) – he pulled himself free, leaving behind a bunch of soft belly fur.

I mean, I have to give Floyd credit – he really played a good game. I caught four other rats before the guards finally caught Floyd. As big as a big cat, according to my neighbor…poor Floyd. You were a worthy, disgusting opponent.

Cheers.

A Small Promise

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4.22 A Small Promise

He said come here and hold me
All throughout the night.
I’d love to, Love, but I’m afraid
I promised I would write.

Your kisses make me smile
And your arms are my delight
But I’ve a second rendez-vous
I promised I would write.

For I’m a woman of my word
And words give no respite
I’ll come back to your warm embrace
I promised I would write.

Who knows how long I waited
For the muses to alight?
Cursing that I ever said
I promised I would write.

Your sleepy hands reached for me
In the waning white moonlight
I took your hands and kissed them
I promised I would write.

And I’m a woman of my word
And the words are tucked in tight
So kiss me love for I am here
I promised I would write.

Empty Space / Love and Bouldering

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4.10 Empty Space

The empty space inside my head
Is vast, but ever shrinking
I find I bring my focus back
With patient, conscious thinking

Or else I stare at something bland
And let my hands meander
Perhaps they’ll write a shiny phrase
And my brain will take a gander.

I haven’t looked down at the keys
Which I know sounds most outlandish
Would you be kind enough to look
In case there’s something I accomplished?

****

4.11 Love and Bouldering

If I’m a bucket
You’re a crimp
We make an interesting climb
I’ll take your arms
You’ll need my fingers
We’ll make it up just fine
I’ll hold your feet
You take my toes
While we’re both in our prime
And when we’re up
We’ll trace back down
Let’s chalk it up to time

****

Too far to truly worry

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4.6 Too far to Truly Worry

Checking in:
Are you ok?
I mean it,
Though I’m far away.

I’m trying to mean it, anyway.

It’s just
The fire is not here
I worry
Though I’m in the clear

It’s a bit too far to carry fear

Those angry faces:
They’ve gone home?
Just checking
Though I hate to phone

I trust that you’ve been left alone

Checking in:
That’s not you, right?
Facing outward
Towards the night?

I prefer to keep the topics light

Ok, we’re good?
You’re not yet dead?
Sweet, I’ll
Just head off to bed

Maybe check online instead

***

I have friends who are stationed in dangerous places – far more dangerous than where I’m at right now. Still, when I check in with them on Facebook and they’re so calm about it, I find it really difficult to maintain my sense of worry. It’s more a dutiful worry than an authentic feeling…

Sunny Conakry

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4.5 Sunny Conakry

I’m ready for the coming dark
When the power goes away
For here in sunny Conakry
It’s out most of the day

I’ll sit out in my wooden chair
And listen to the sea
I’ll watch the garbage ride the tide
In sunny Conakry

Oh happy day
Oh finery
It’s all ok
In Conakry

I’m ready for the Mad Max dawn
When the highways have gone bad
For here in sunny Conakry
Driving’s always mad

I’ll ride my little car along
As careful as can be
I’ll choke down smoke till I get home
In sunny Conakry

Oh sunny day
(Humidity)
It’s just that way
In Conakry.

Scavenger at a Sprinkler

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4.3 Scavenger at a sprinkler

Clanky-winged creature stretching out in the sun
Wash your feathers of the bits of blood and mess
Dry season in the red dirt has left you undone
The rain-making device is a godlike gift
Stuck hopping through water, old straggle-feather breasts
While the white-winged egrets stalk and drift
Snatching bugs from the dry husks of grass
You use your red hook beak and strip your chest
Of bone, of vein, of rotted carcass.

Four More

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Alright – here we go.

I’ve got one day and too many poems to write. Here are a few, and I’ll post a few more tomorrow.

4.17

I’m working with a calm heart and hot hands.
I’ve got undressing on my mind.
I’ve got skin to ruin.
I’m collecting my thoughts sequentially.
I’m breathing, breathing.
I’ve settled my actions.
I’ve unleashed my mind.
I’m calm.
I’m ravenous.

4.18

Putting a rhyme in the middle of a sentence
Throws off the time and the beat of the poem
Stuck hitting lines that create expectations
How the brain pines for that matching set of sounds
Sensing a path in the rhythm and the cadence
Facing the wrath of an uncompleted couplet
Perhaps without knowing you’ve already discovered
You’re already flowing making breaks of your own

4.19

On the banks of the Tsurumi
Fuji fading into shadow
I’ll let you listen to me
Dream about tomorrow