The Orange Cat
This place has history
Coffee and floor boards
That floated up one day
When the river ran dry
Ancient clapboard strains
That recall the scent of pastels
The rose of palettes, painters
Abandoned by the roadside
Air blows in from the gulf
Or is that silken voice
An older one…
These walls can speak
Of glittering painted masks
Who’s empty eyes still see
Dolls and befuddled teddy bears
Watching cobwebs wave
Of candlelit, flickering corners
Sparking to the blues box
The smoke of phantom rhythms
Stepping to the bridge
Of swinging in chorus
As shear curtains sway
In the arms of shadows
Dressed to kill
Of feathers and fleece flying
And crumpled sheets and pillow cases
As peppermint begets lavender
And the ayes have it
Of laughing in liquid Luna
That wink in the windows
Brushing peach blossoms
With the blush of fruit
Of bare feet padding the floor in darkness
The swell of a timeless warmth
As love settles back into bed
Eyes lit in a cigarette’s glow
Of breaths turning in whisper’s hush
Black velvet, the mist of crepe myrtles
As spirits cakewalk though the house
And the orange cat gives chase
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