the sky
is a pale bruised canvas
for a convalescent
sun, and the cat
and i lie up
against the space

heater, waiting
for the watery
light of late afternoon
to wander in
through the upstairs
windows. i

am thinking bare-legged
thoughts, dreaming
of sand. he dislikes
the lilac candle,
the smell
of the old coffee.

today is too cold
for outside poems.
even the flies
that settle on
the unborn bodies
of outside poems

are sluggish,
and the cat bats
them down easy.
looking out, we see
power lines and bare
branches over pastel

rooftops. he does
his best cadbury
pose, breaks
my concentration
before the concrete
of the words has set,

leaves his imprint
in their wake.
fitting that it’s three
nights til Easter.
some days we wish
it were May already.