Poetry

T.G.

There’s something intuitive about him,
furry. He winds himself around my neck, bristling,
a ferret breathing warm, fast thoughts.
He does magic, this lad:
he straddles me to say hello,
has playing cards
for eyelids, shuffled,
always in motion.
He twists like a summer hose.
His three-day unshavens cling, alpines
in minimal soil.
There is no waste about him:
flattened he rings
like a steel guitar string.
He’s a sandy mammal,
a mountain cat
with a voice slightly hoarse,
a grazing edge of tongue.
He holds a cigarette
between two fingers, a rhythm stick,
and staccatos out a verse
about not being able to sleep.
Each completed rhyme is a way station,
a place for gathering.
He crackles, alight, a generous fuse.
He arrives at rehearsal
with the caterer’s leftovers, arrays them like a feast
for all of us to use.