Cat



Pass me your cup, and look at this Picasso I have. No, this is just where nature didn’t meet up with industrial waste. I wonder where the next rain storm will come. Feeda looked at what was left of her dinner as she dropped it on the floor. The dish had burnt her hand as the cockroach had surprised her. Now she would go hungry. The cat would be ok, if she had a cat. Gradually the dark clouds gathered, and now the rain came, too late to get the clothes in. She watched them get soaked again. And looked at the mess on the floor. Maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I should be a cat. At least the cockroach was an Asian cockroach, as big as a cat, which makes it ok to drop your dinner. The view of clothes and trees blotted out by rain, and a memory of visiting the Tate Modern. It is not enough. Not enough. I once loved in a far away land, but not here. And her name was not Feeda, nor even Asian. And yet, she could have been Freeda, the loss is the same. Loss. That’s what it is all about. There is nothing to see but the rain. Nothing to hear but the cat looking for dinner. Ideas of American Diners. Far away on a route beyond 66. Spin the globe and follow the rutted road through palm oil plantations. My time is near. I think of Feeda again. I wonder if the cat is with her still. I think of art and deep oceans; one of them but be better than… than, I don’t know. My heart is wounded. Possibly for good, at least, it will be, soon, soon as the earth spins… once, a hundred times. Abstract ideas fill the mind. As abstract of dinner splashed across the floor or a careful impressionist canvas, or a cockroach, squashed, full of goo, spread out with the dinner for the cat, the cat that isn’t there.

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