Cats that talk
My every morning is slow I watch the sky turn A slight breeze plays with the sheer curtains The windowpane is an empty and dull space An indent on the wall Useful for nothing in particular Where else would a pane be but beaneath its window? There ! on that windowpane Sit several flower pots Filled half-heartedly with shrunken earth Withered flowers Their colours drained As if in their retiremenet they had tired and aged Their expressions ring grey Having lounged until their timely death The warmth of the sun nor water Could resolve them - their necks hang low What a cruel fate it isTo feel yourself fading In and out of the present moment Like you're here but elsewhere altogether There's an indent on the flower pot Cheap plastic Their veins are drought of fluid Flowers will die Taken from the earth to decorate our homes To die and be replaced That is their value They rest The soil in the pot cracks dry And a cat nestles it Its warmth comes as a comfort The cat curls up its little self On top of that pot It looks like cream on coffee