Joshua

                                    Thank God He�s Not a Lion

   We cut off our cat�s mojo when he was just a toddler,
   but still he lives in high places, atop coffee tables and the sort,
   striding with pride over the Mount Kilimanjoro of book shelves,
   strapped with the contractual obligation of hunting bugs
   and exploring the optimal positions for window warmth.
   �Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,�
   he meows as daylight pokes obtrusively through the blinds.
   It must be the frequent catnaps that cause such morning boredom.
   I swear the clever bastard thinks he is our rooster.
   When I�m shaving before work, he watches wondering,
   why my whiskers should deserve a cutting, while his merit a grooming.
   It�s then that our eyes lock in a pause of confusion and distrust,
   and I say, "scat" as he purrs farewell.

   Posted 2/13/02

                   Magnolias and Mockingbirds

   Resembling brothers, they stood in symmetry,
   framing the redbrick like columns,
   holding up the sky with well-built hands.

   Jungle gyms of enormous dimension,
   they released a white aroma,
   from pedals as delicate as my skin.

   I grew up a city boy, but slept
   on a Georgia plantation.
   Against the steel backdrop of modernity,

   I stalked the ecology of imitation,
   puzzled by the bells and whistles,
   unexplained but for the beak and feathers.

   One summer the trees turned a dreadful brown.
   My father had them cut down and destroyed.
   I haven�t heard a counterfeit siren since.

   Posted 2/12/02