my life already is overrun

with cats.  Harry jumps on my back

before my morning coffee

whining for something –attention, or food.

He wants to know that I love him best, that I love

him still.  Callie –eight weeks old –at a closed door

ready to pounce when I open it. She has been spayed, has the stitches

to prove it.  Harry is not fond of the interloper, or me

when I bring her home after years of being alone

like me.  Some things just don’t mix, we are tempting

the hands of fate and this poem is crap.

the purple pink cauliflower
hydrangeas droop
in the late morning
heat, Disappointed with what
was, what might be.

We like to think
our mistakes are limited, finite. That we are offered
or allowed a certain number and when we reach
that we are free to whatever poor
choices that lie before us –things we don’t
hesitate about, or give a passing
glance. We only act
taking what is, what will be,

the yard covered in stone
creatures, benches, broken
down goddesses, the Virgin
Mary palms up, one hand chipped
and cracked. He sat in the corner always
a fire going no matter
the season, the radio
in the background reverberating
through the neighborhood that he was
always the talk of.