POOL 

 

a journal of poetry


SANDRA SIMONDS

Their Cats

 

I am the lapse. The collapsed

left lung of a little boy

who would die before

the next administration

of fluids and electrolytes.

His name was Chris West

and in that lung was a squashed

ballad "down by the Bay

where the watermelons

grow" and oh

how blonde were

the hairs on his head and oh

how blonde were

his lucky you hands.

 

No.

I am the stone

testicle, the arterial

ride on the roller coaster

that plummets

the stomach.

I'm the Hummer

of Arnold Schwarzenegger

riding through

Beverley Hills and

everyone looks at me

so look at me you

palm tree bitch.

 

No, I'm not.

I am poor.

I am so poor

that I vomit pennies.

Dimes trash

the sunset

so count them

if you want to be

loved tonight.

In this economy,

I am nothing.

My friends are nothing.

The poems that they write

are good for nothing

and there's nothing

that they can do about it.

My good for nothing

friends steal meat

from the butcher

and then cut off

their fingers and feed

them to their cats-

those ethical monks.

 

The suffocation cats

enter your room

when you least expect it.

You cough blood because

you can't pay for

the doctor and fur

is clumping up in

your aorta again.

You buy those dime store

drugs-purple syrups,

red pills and wait under

a thin sheet of glass.

 

        

 

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