Poetry
Felix Thursday
from Horace's Epistles (1.10.24)
One of the cats has left
a maimed robin on the doorstep.
From what remains of the evidence,
it's clear it died a slow, wicked, death.
This discovery only after they've spent
the morning curled on my chest,
stretching their claws into me and
purring up-close to my lips.
My mind is running amok with metaphors:
relationships with girls; Dionysian revelries;
serial killers; horror movies. Finally
I recall the words of an ancient poet:
You can toss out nature with a pitchfork,
but it will still come running back in.
