zafusy

The clap and slam
of kitty-eyed marbles
over orange-pink and purplish wagon wheels
of a polyester bedroom rug,
shallow cut as gossamer threads,
a one-dimensional, under rub to on-ice air.

Blasts skim the nonstick door,
back up from lilac skirting,
rat-tat-tatting a grey-glass window,
that sash with a buckshot peephole
condensing powdery snow.

He was a prettyboy pocketmouse, I clinched
into the mousebox, monofilament eyebrows,
epileptic whiskers,
a gnaw of indifference
to cuddlesome nerves of fur.

Blanched on the fire -
I’d been black-sheepishly forgetful,
“it’s dead, it’s dead,” I screamed,
blind to the mask of hibernation.

Christopher Barnes

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