The little black cat huddles
Into an uneasy sleep now
Alone, on my back porch.
Little black stray, a product
Of man's carelessness,
Grabbing a moment of
Uneasy respite.
Black little stray
Pitifully pleading to an
Empty, dark night.
Eating cautiously food I leave
By my doorstep.
In all of us there is a little bit
Of stray. A part that
Cannot mesh, making us
Fear who we really are.
Sometimes you can see
It in the numbing din of the stale
Cocktail hour. And, there
It is again in the lonely shadow
The crowd cannot hide.
Sleep little stray, sleep
I hear your pleading cry.
Why can't they?
Life's opium curtains close
Tightly around society's
Respectable disguise.
Still, the cat wanders.
Anxiously, he looks up.
I look deeply
Into those golden eyes,
But see only a reflection
Of myself.
Little stray, stay.
After the March
The placards are waving.
Good people with
Good intentions in
The peace march.
"No more war!"
"Peace!" they shout.
Colorful headbands,
Clever slogans and
Signs moving atop
A swarm of ants
Marching, blocking.
Locking arms, they
Sing and sway,
Against the candle-lit night.
It feels so right.
But after the march,
Like a herd of blind mice
Greedily gnawing
On a block of finite cheese,
They ride their vans,
And toast their palates,
Plan another vacation,
And the next rally.
A sea of kind souls
Behind blinders
Gobbling in the
Shadow of the world's
Wailing want, not
Knowing that they,
Like errant hormones
Fuel the cancer
They wish to cure.
