I chat with the black cat
so I don't hear
the creepy creaking walls
that sound like men with weapons
that will punch my belly
and cackle and take the things
that mean nothing to me.

I in my house with dust
skating across the floor
and hoover humming,
while a real friend drives
through my town to try
to find my little house
to say goodbye one more time.

The wind is guffawing
and howling at a joke
the rain is telling
and Mothers' Day plants are pelted
and blown and they close
tiny trumpets protecting pollen.

Sctch, sctch, sctch
when the tiny black cat runs
away, away from the wind
that isn't ruffling her fur
but she likes the sound
of her toes in carpet.

Today the sky in this
tiny town is crying
and bans the sun
because he knows she can't
find the Indian boy
to shine on his
welcoming face.