Brunch For One
I press my lips
to your cold
coffee mug,
hazelnut creamer
won’t mask
your smoky-sweet
breath, flooding
my lungs
(Image of Sir Andy Hisster, a devout bruncher)
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Saragun Springs 
Erin
A wonderful vampire moment. All personal human interactions have that element. Ephemeral and lovely.
Leila
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LA
Once again I wish to extol, and laud, the beautiful colors of Sir Andy’s fur. Such gray colors symbolize goodness, benevolence, and wisdom, and therefore Sir Andy himself, though he likely doesn’t know it (or care) on a conscious level, stalks through the world as proof that the world itself is at least a little more than half good, with the potential to be a lot more good than that.
Thanks for taking care of him!
DB
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Hi Dale
Indeed Andy is all style. He has been invisible lately, but all his little telltale signs have been around. I feed him everyday, but unlike the other I only actually see him once every week or so.
Thank you!
Leila
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Erin
This poem seems to turn on the word “your,” twice, and it gently shifts its meaning each time it’s perused, sometimes in big ways, sometimes in small. Montaigne said, “We must lend ourselves to others, but give ourselves only to ourselves.” For him, that was a prescription more true than life and death itself.
This poem is firmly grounded in the tactile world. Yet it is, again gently, flooded with concrete details that make it a whole world, a whole, real world in 22 words.
The poem also shows that sometimes the quietest of voices can speak louder than a whole roomful of didactic blowhards.
It shows a person communing with the self. Erotic longing, or other kinds of longing, become sublimated into art for many of the world’s best poets.
The short lines and simple language show that true poetry is often made up of less, not more (especially now in a world drowning and flooding us all with too many crowded, dead words).
A wonderful work. Please send more whenever you, or they, are ready!
Dale
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