Blown in the Glass


The blown in the glass cat, vacations
on the sidewalk, like a santa, making lists of folk, rhyme and rhythm
checking off the names of those that dismissed him

I can’t sleep inside anymore, he says
and rolls out the bedroll under the crisp mountain stars
he picks a paper one hour before opening,
teaching lessons,on where to acquire, block scrapings.

He recounts the freedom, 50 years on the rod will get you,
10 years….. for every one you didn't go to fight.

I expect a revelation, but we end up just sharing,
stories disguised as presents
buried deep within the bindle,
tied tight on the long branches
of our ancestor

These american nomads.
Maybe I can be his angelina?

Instead, I grab some alki and get the cookies and milk.
Sure, I will catch the reindeer,
before the whistle blows, through the wye.

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