Autumn is the Season of Love
I want to love ungrateful catnip inside the felt carrot with a bell attached to it. Want to scold it, kicking my brazen back claws. The black cat in the window across the street bends his forehead and, timid, licks his left haunch over and over again and we are all very sleepy. Who will care for the bathtub if the porcelain cracks? Who makes the bathtub extravagant and sentimental? The furniture is exaggerated -- and rubbed against, rubbed the wrong way, rubbed with plain yogurt, rubbed with stubbly mouse-tails and spit-roasted to perfection.