My Cat’s Apartment 

My cat slept for days in his dirty apartment
under the white shingled house. When he slunk out, 

his brown fur matted in tufts and cooled his plump stripes from lying ages in the shade. 

I imagine him sometimes
sleeping under his roof
on the power-breaking, rain-pounding, tree-shaking stormy nights alone;
his proud snout brushing the floor of
dead leaves.
Did he tremble,
was he a cattail in the wind,
or was he quietly sleeping? 

Sometimes we look at my cat’s apartment,

through the thicket of mint sprigs and garlic cloves
and the single burgundy rose 

that bows its head towards the dirt. We only look for a second
before gazing upwards
to the vacant sky. 

Rodina the Angel 

When it reached 100 degrees in Iowa the graveyard air was heavy with dust. I was blind at the midnight stroll
to see Rodina the angel. 

Maybe it was peaceful but perhaps at the time, it was just dark.
I saw the statue; 

her face a shadow,
she blended in with the black,
her wings gracing the aging moon. Did her death bring her peace
or did it bring her old fury? 

Privacy

The pavement-burning day in spring

sends people flying through my window.

Clear glass pane painted soft gold

washes my room,

bathes it in its clear,

crisp tedium.

People sit on the roof 

of the house next door.

Robins perched,

telephone poles 

stagnant in the wind.

They shoot holes through the glass,

their beady little eyes howling

and all I want to do 

is to pull the curtain

and bruise my room purple.