We have a pumpkin to carve, his eyes to slant and crooked
mouth to menace, his seeds to roast and innards to light.
Rain puddles shrink on the pavement, after we fall asleep
in a flood – our warm ark holds off winter showers.
My kitten shrouds herself in bubble wrap, after she destroys
most of its armour – small capped gun shots, clear and deadly.
My roof, a sound tarp; these walls, a windbreaker
against a steady sheet of rain, as the sky douses the Earth with fire rescue pails.
We rise from our comforter mid-afternoon, billowed out
as the wind touches window pane, we rest through winter starting.
The violent sway of branches keeps us inside, makes us
put the kettle on more often, re-hook up cable, live under blankets
while nestled in pages.
Our kittens play in their safe confinement, they watch the trees
dance with no fear of cold forces; far from the street, they attack
chair leg with no fear of cars.
We rise from bed at three in the afternoon, after a night
of industry, eat chocolate for breakfast, still call it morning –
these are decadent days.
Slow into this morning posture – corpse pose to sun salutation –
light pen tip, fingertips on morning scales, this massage.
Ingredients for breakfast, too little. The soy milk gone and
eggs dissolved past expiry; this poor fridge maintenance. Still, I feed him.