I talk to the cat: I fed you, I say.
She meows anyway.
A cat in my lap; no hat.
She doesn't approve of her food.
A lady writer, Tiffany? rings a bell,
writes about a writer called Geoff.
Geoff's cutlery shivers in its drawers
when the bus stops. Goal posts are gallows.
Tiffany takes Geoff and his goal posts round the world
To pause over people who cough in their countries,
unseen. Tiffany (her second name)
shows me my weakness;
too weak to stand up and be blogged.
She puts her dolls to sleep at night in a box,
a black sheet over their scared eyes.
Eggs boil for the boys,
the cat, off my lap, thinks they're for her.
Rain comes in a sound wave tsunami
like rising applause.
My poet is pleased; weakness appeased.
Geoff appears now without Tiffany
Enigmatic; understated; discordant; male.
A reluctant hero, elbowing still for that punchy last line.
Nails it, in a cafe, sipping coffee:
a racket we play without balls.
Conducting an experiment in living.
Delicate sheets of pale green lettuce
balanced lovingly on lumpy beds of mashed egg,
like cot sheets on a sleeping baby.
A long brown bun, the top half now closes
over the bottom half -- coffin like.
Yellow clumps of over-boiled egg
like maggot clusters, escape. Are gobbled up. Too late.
Air-tight Gladwrap puts an end to it.
The house smells like egg;
someone's bound to come to the door.