one curious, but nondescript afternoon

 

along the hard
curbside,

fleas leaving the
vessel of a dead
cat body.

his eyes still
glistening in
the wet
sun,

he see's
nothing,

he knows
nothing,

he pretends
nothing.

he is real,

authentic.

I stand there tranquil,
looking down,
pondering;

can I go to any
place in history
in Time's Square?

do camel's celebrate
Wednesday's?

what will I have for
dinner tonight?

I turn, walk
away,

the centuries will
take no note of
the cat or
me.

and above me are the
sounds of clouds
making
love,

as I wonder what
you are doing
tonight.