Tails from the windowsill

Forlorn feline flat against glass
Asks with gasping grace
“How many days slip in and away?”
Left luggage on calendar’s conveyor

Come now! Come bow head in prayer
Ye faithful practitioners of public posturing
For posterity means precious little;
pressing brittle bone
until the crack and the moan melt into landscape

Distant debate, vanishing points
Differences dissipate
as slow, slithering things bleed in through the walls
Still feline never stirs

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