Through some interesting (and frustrating) mutations of my sleep schedule this week, Wednesday turned into a contest for survival and I didn’t post anything for Word Wednesday. So, rather than wrack my brain for something to write about today, I thought maybe it’d be fun to do a make-up post.
This poem is hot off the notebook from last night with minimal editing.
civet poet it’s easy to picture a poet as feline: the ease of solitude & removed worldview along with a love for sleep, quietly padding hallways at night while prowling - one for prey & the other praying for words, limber of body (or of spirit) & prone to lazy indulgences along with sunbeams. if only cats loved beer as well, there’d be no living with either of us.
For those wondering what a civet is, here you go.
Also, if you enjoyed this poem, you may want to consider getting a free digital copy of my book Odd Bits Of Broken Things while it’s available through my new shop.