Everyday Majestic Musings

Come learn about economics,
gender norms, and microphonics,
books, zines, wires, and anarchy.

Not questionable, Iffy.

Call whomever, share the glee,
their payphone says, laconically,
projecting generosity:

"Donations only. All calls free."

My cat's a little dummy,
brain squishy like a gummy.
He's got a fluffy tummy,
but
his hearing's pretty crummy.

Half way up the staircase, he
calls out loud to locate me.
So I walk over to see
the cause of his crying plea.

When I say his name, he
looks the wrong way and sees
no one at the top and
thinks he just can't see me.

Then I call him again, and he swings his head around,
sees me standing on the landing nearer to the ground,
looks back up and then back down again until his eyes
recognize my visage which he notes with some surprise.

His face lights up, "Oh, hey! You're there!
How'd you get past me on the stairs?
I heard you up, but now you're down.
I guess my senses turned around!"

I say "I know, there's no brain there.
Your head is filled with fluff and air.
It makes you super sweet and true.
It's ok though, I love you too."

A park to the north is just one tree and shrubs,
a quiet side alley away from the clubs
where people can sit with Italian subs
defending the street from stone polarbear cubs.

A lodge for the cat who's alone on the street
and looking for shelter or a place to eat
that's out of harm's way and not under our feet
with shade to keep cool from the summer sun's heat.

The neighborhood felines that live on our blocks,
the grey one, the tabby, the black one with socks,
when resting protected and not out on walks,
might come spend their nights in this covered cat box.