It is 5:27 in the morning
Kitty is yowling for attention
She is unhappy with the food in her dish
She wants something different
She doesn’t want the supplement I give her
To strengthen her joints, and her back legs
She is seventeen and getting arthritic
She wants to play
She cannot jump anymore
She does not like to play string
While laying on the floor
I lift her to the window
So she can watch the dark street
It is still dark outside
It is quiet on Bryant
The bus just rolled by, high pitched engine
Breaking up the silence
Kitty stirring beneath her blanket on couch
Under the orange and white stripped tent
I make for her in the morning
She thinks she is a cave lion
It was dark, deep dark
In the middle of the night
The witching hour passed
My cat is sleeping
She is curled up on her chair
She does little else
There is a rattle
Noises come from the upstairs
The house is creaking
A car rolls past, bass
Booming down the avenue
The bars have let out
I woke too early
I came to my desk to write
My fingers tapping
I stole the future, and stuffed it into a sack of visions
I wandered through the webs of time, careful as a spider
I wove strings of possibilities, each lighted thread a snare
I hid in truth’s shadow, orbiting the event horizon
I shut my eyes against the dark, and I whispered to the void
While I slipped beyond the veil of knowing, unbecoming I
It is 4:00 am and dark outside.
The streets are quiet.
My cat is sleeping nearby on her blanket, atop the book case. My gal, in the bed behind the closed door.
It is warm. The air is heavy in the house.
I am listening to the news, the voices are muffled over the low pitched noise of the humming fan, on the end table by my desk.
The coffee maker beeps, beeps, beeps…it is telling me that the warming plate below the pot is about to switch off.
I do not care for the sound of its alarms.