Secondhand Scent

I press your palm,

inhale a brand new head note.

Dry-down does not alter its mellow ego. 

It smokes grassy through skin,

overrides all previous compounds:  memories,

migraines, cheekbones, jawbones.

Bouquet lingers like the last days of summer.

I hone it, catch it in a Mason jar,

screw the lid on tight; save it for when

I need odorous bliss, an oracle

that calms all sorts of butterflies,
claustrophobia, and scars. 

tk/January 2015

Lovely evocative read by R.A.D. ...

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Jealous Cat

Make noise.

Lots of jangle.  Bang.

Strut about.  Headbutt. 

Protected only by persistence.

Phone.  Splat of postie's drop.

Arouses more than catnip.

Dinner.  Feign disinterest.

Hope for eager pitch.  Sale.

Evening fare coaxed.  Bowled.

Listen for full exhale.  Then?

Lap is occupied.  Go.

Curl the coat.  Sleep.

Dream unused lives. 

tk/April 2014




R.A.D. Stainforth calmly considers a pussycat: 

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*The King of Cats, 1935, Balthus