cheshire cats…

“those cats again”

I know all about this Cheshire cat.
She stalks around looking for food,
whatever that is;
walking around with that look,
that look that,
I don’t know, that look
that combines pride &
A certain cat I know
pulls it off all the time.

A can of coke and some snow,
my fingers are numb.
Getting back to my Cheshire;
well she isn’t really my
but she struts just like
she’s mine.
The performance is good,
that sly smile, that tail sticking up
in the air,
the beginnings of contrition
through shameless flaunting.

You think she knows
what she’s doing?
Red flags and blinking lights.
Just watch the cat.

My eyes are mostly closed.
Not because it’s late in the day,
rather due to numb tongues
breaking promises.

Part of me hopes the show ends
that I’ve been here before and
need to get away from my
Cheshire cat.
I’m an easy mark,
I love getting taken.

My hair’s getting pretty long,
my earrings aren’t as easy to see.
Being busted is easy;
staying busted is pretty easy too.
Just don’t move too much
and follow
the Cheshire cat.


When I’s younger, I used to think there was only one Cheshire cat. Having been proven wrong on several counts, this poem is dedicated to all the daydreams that stayed ethereal and the real Cheshire cats. We here at Foolish Consolidated Publishing Industries never use names or identities, so that’s right out, but let’s just say it’s a thin line between muse and agent saboteur. Cigarette butts and used condoms, they go together like a toothy grin and a painful wound. I’m guessing I’m not nearly as slick as I think I am.

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