There’s still approximately 15 minutes left to Word Wednesday here in Eastern Standard Time, so here’s one from 2021 that hasn’t been revised at all and, in fact, hadn’t been read since it was typed into the magic poem machine the day it was composed. Enjoy.
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.