Margarita, the cat, and the coming of Spring
As though a rite had erupted from our mouths
like too much ash and smoke in the glass jars
and goblets of our childhood,

Margarita sits at the window
rubbing lotion into her legs, the
light is a silk thread over her, a shroud
and in the crisp dawn we pretend
make believe is still believable
at our age,

the cat sighs,
a loud proclamation that
our humor escapes her,

and by the afternoon I have
invented a new lover awaiting
me at the foot of the drive like
he always has been, and the
rain starts again in March
when the cherry trees stand
weighted, ready to line the streets
with the coming of spring

as though a rite of religious action had cackled from our mouths
like too much wandering mayhem, having lost our merriment
between the forefinger of our dreams and the change in the
weather; as unpredictable as age

inevitably
overtaking us,

always
despite the chaos
behind our closed eyes.