Twice this month alone
I’ve read poems that allude to
Two different poets writing about different things.
Once, I could see.
Or do poets all write about the same thing?
If so, what’s with the rapeseed oil?
What did I miss? Why didn’t I hear about it?
I’ll stop with the poetry for a while.
A third would be too much.
Across the way the cat pads at his bed
For what seems like hours with that stupid face he gets.
Drives me nuts until I throw a pillow at him and scream for him
He hisses and stomps up the stairs, each loud creak
Echoing through the house.
Coffee tastes like burnt wood without half and half;
There are no more cookies and
Only ten oxys left
in the Imodium bottle in the fridge.
Enough for three days if I’m careful.
Then I have to make a move.