Being the Boy
       

The parked mailman truck teaches patience. People with time

to wait by tall windows for the mail have a lost world luxury.

The fed cat massages the window with her sharp claws. She is proud

of herself. Her slaughterhouse simulation. Her opulent style

of rolling in the sun. Also, resurrection. On my long list of ghosts

to invite to a tea party, Kiki de Montparnasse graces the top ten.

It is possible my cat is a reincarnation of Kiki de Montparnasse.

I have entertained the idea of us sipping gin. In this idea,

we go shopping and buy cookies. W e wear silk robes and wave

from balconies far above the sidewalk. We wear satin slippers

with heels. Our painted mouths match the peonies in the garden.

When we get giddy, the sparkling necklaces we wear fall

into our drinks. You are invited to this idea too, but there are rules.

Hold the tentacle-shaped teacup handle in a fancy way. No swans

allowed. No feathers or sand. You don't always have to be the boy.

Just today. Don't ask me to make a fist when I am not angry.

After all, it isn't what you say or how you say it, so much as I am

the kind of person who will be weather if you ask nicely.

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Copyright © 2014 Gina Keicher All rights reserved
from Wilderness Champion
Gold Wake Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission