…to being Heatless for the Third Day and Night
in Below-Freezing Manhattan
If I were you I’d hop the fence,
contrive some means toward
the annihilation of your least
capacity for sense. Such guides
as there may henceforth be
to realms cut out for such as we
will likely scare the pants off thee
and not remotely tickle me.
One comes today: the spectre
of a rabid black-and-yellow cat.
I suspect we do not want
too much to do with that.
+
Oh, stick it up your diddly-doo:
I shall not be afraid of you.
Though you would tell me all is hell,
I smell another kind of smell –
though mighty unlak’ any rose,
it leads me rather to suppose
some easy spirit dwells inside
to foment quite another ride
to some unprecedented sight.
I see you snarl with spite.
Obviously, I’m right. I be pretty,
you a fright. Feed the kitty.
.
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