First Day of Winter
I'm scrounging for food that doesn't smell like arthritis medicine or crushed-powder heart pills. The catnip carrot tied to the door hinge; a bat under the rug; a mouse under the stove; something to kill in the radiator. Fresh snow pile suffocating squirrels in the bole of The Mayakovsky Tree. Go away. I'm very busy now. I have work to do. Leave me alone. Mice come in from the cold into my restive mouth. Radiators clanking, mice in from cold scruffling in the radiator slats. I'll eat them. Don't steal my food. What's that clicking noise? Only Jeff is truly free. One December morning 12 years ago I was asleep in the threshhold between the bedroom and the hallway so Tony and Shelly had to step over me if they wanted to walk anywhere. Then Tony picked me up and locked me in my carrier and took me to the Den of Spies. It's when we lived in Boston. The Den of Spies was a free clinic, dogs and halitosis everywhere. Shut up and let me tell my story. Kissinger in charge, as always. I woke up next morning at the Den of Spies with my sex gone. I woke up the next morning and one of Kissinger's minions told me she had been monitoring two patients that night and that I had a pretty serious case of sleep apnea. I woke up the next morning and there was snow. I woke up the next morning and my head was fuzzy. I saw costumes strewn about the floor. For a moment, I thought the spaying was a bad dream. I woke up the next morning connected to beeping machines. I woke up the next morning to the sound of lions. There was no sky.