after Roppongi by Maitresse
What am I doing here, my lap a garden for a highrise cat,
trapped in a leaky apartment with a ballpoint for a fur
coat, plasticking unsnug panes against
the pawing arctic?
such a saran wrap, such a calico
What am I doing here where rodents squeal through
closed cupboard doors, shrilly scrape at my
female protector?
such a bachelor, such a loaf of bread
What am I doing fricking bitten and kneaded and provided
warmth by a four-legged, docile, clingy, slightly declawed
barbarian?
such a well brought-up urn, such language.
Occasionally she opens a yeasty greek eye at me
as if to say: You will pay significantly
more rent for your next place,
you will no longer leave me alone for days
with your maidservice friends, and you will
desist with that uncouth tongue of a lint brush,
worrying my hair off your garments and rugs.
Now scratch under my chin. Darling of course
you may write about this, continue on
after your torsos, your ashes beneath
the compound eye of nighttime stars. After all,
the insect of many streets creeps inside
your walls and in a moment my imaginary words
will be unrevoiceably in memory.
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