ISSN 1545-2859




               TOM REYNOLDS


Even before dawn,
they assemble,

crouched on the steps,
gazing up at the window.

The doorframe crack
the universal center.

Did the curtain move?
Hinges creak?

Even raining, snowing,
they wait, certain.

Even hungover, depressed,
he has to appear eventually,

trying not to trip,
balancing a paper plate.

Ah, how lucky
are the stray cats of the world!

Ecstatic for pizza scraps
and crusty noodles!

numb to the wind
with bloated bellies.

Even the gaunt tabby
peers from the weeds,

too aloof and arrogant
to come forward,

proud of his independence,

content to lick the plate
when none can see.

Father's Day

A luna moth
with shredded wings
clings to a stem

flutters frantically
in the butter dish
still flecked with butter.

"Daughter," I begin,
as if to teach a lesson
about wild things

but she knows the moth,
wings greasily transparent,
is better with her now.

"He is a father moth,"
his children have flown away,
and his wings don't work."

Staring into the dish,
she offers him a leaf,
strokes his back.

In the morning,
as she taps the dish,
I let it slowly sink in.

Copyright © 2004 Tom Reynolds.. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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