Minutia

Lucy

My brain is numb from
    watching murder mysteries
so I argue with the cat
            over the pencil . . .
The one with the sour point
that scrapes and drags
itself across the rough paper . . .
toothmarks pointed;
and defiant, but
unremarkable words pour off
the tip like a paper match
dragging across an emery strip,
to flame
and devour itself . . .
a blue flash, a flare of yellow and then
a blackened strip of crumbled soot. . .
dust to be tossed
aside and disappear
into the peripheries of life
. . . .My page resembles wall paper
with traces and patterns. . .
and the cat is cleaning
her left hind leg;
my pencil,
scratching and trailing,
finds its way to the
prison of my teeth and
I remember shorthand  . . . .


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