Lazy Cat

Lazy cat, you’re napping

In the sun again as if its June,

But in the center of the road,

Playfully flopped over the yellow line.

I can tell you’re a nice cat, black,

White paws and throat, pink nose.

I’m sure you rub legs, curl on laps,

Beg for a string, a fish, a saucer of cream.

You belong to the old woman in this house

Or the little girl in that house.

At first, I pass by: “That’s too bad.”

A neighbor’s car swerves;

A truck straddles your repose.

I pick you up and you’re not

Stiff yet. Blood on my gloves,

I set you on the curb, hoping

Loved ones will discover you,

Knowing someone will grieve

And surely give you a proper

Burial in their backyard.

The Granary

The granary stood

Leaning unassuming apart

From the barn and dairy

Painted the same red

As the machinery shed

Now fading more

Wood than pigment

Each a singular

Pungent redolence

Hay milk grease

The granary aroma

Was autumn and burlap

Plowing planting

Worry fruition

In its polished ribs

Boards slippery with chaff

The way the wheat

Sifted sliding over

Your palms was soothing

Familiar and primordial

An instinctual assurance