Whisper of nutmeg in the Eastern sky.
A newspaper describes an arc above the
driveway, lands with a slap.
Meo on a pinebranch, sixty feet up,
claws fixed on the trunk like crampons.
Wet rag fur.
He curses his wiring,
a genetic trigger that reads
when in doubt go up,
when in fright go up,
when anxious go up,
no countervailing stratagem for
when in storm go down.
It’s a wonder that every
cat in the world doesn’t end up
on the top of Mount Everest.
A gust of wind brings a
shiver that won’t stop,
sets the treetop swaying like a
The world fuzzes over.
The crampons dig deep.
He dreams of hang-glider skinflaps,
chasing bluebirds across the sky,
a mouthful of feathers.
Two notes of humansong, over and
over, the tallest man he’s ever seen,
holding a sack.
Meo spots his door and runs.
Fingers, towels, a
buzzing creature with hot breath.
The stage is covered in
squares and cylinders.
A human hovers near,
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV