We can’t stop thinking about winning.
Impossible to stop, our tails flagellating.
It’s a case of the snaggle-toothed waggles.
Fortune sends airtight flames at the enemies.
And the enemies of our enemies aren’t all mine,
are us, are just what the doctor ordered, are the
buffet breakfast the lost parents wanted aboard
the Holiday Inn. You’d think the treasonous
wrinkles would give them away, and they do,
but only generically. Us cats finding it next to
impossible not to pounce, to stop pouncing.
Don’t stop the pounce! Cats like us can’t
help such things. We can’t lose grip on
what we’ve gripped. Don’t let go, the
saying goes, as said by a voice as eerie
as a misty dawn set on portrait mode
at the entire length of the mosquito-
screened porch that extends the
backside of the entire width of the
owner’s quarters, the shot aimed due
north, black and white, just far enough
downhill to capture the whole of
north, black and white, just far enough
downhill to capture the whole of
the plantation’s oversized outdated
residence. All is go for the victory
headline. And for the under-the-fold
photograph and its subtly nostalgic
caption. Done up special.
For cats like us.
