Her Cat-Food Kitchen

Her cat-food kitchen reeks —

a sordid poem in my

nostrils —

(why do I return each day?)

I stamp my hooves,

blow kitty-litter

before me in a dark

red Georgia clay

of desire

and lick the tingling sweetness

from her neck

with my sandpaper tongue.

Z

for dVerse Poet’s Pub A Quadrille using the word ‘poem.’