THE WAKING CAT

An old woman somewhere

in the north of Ireland

sat on her porch step

in a coarse ragged cloak

puffing her little clay pipe

thinking on Boomusalem

“It mightn’t go off,”

she told the cat and puffed

“It might be a dud”

Night Crawlers

Vermeil had an underground

inn known as Belly’s Place

in a bright red-light district

for expelling night crawlers

It had rooms of gilded copper

bronze and silver with free

vermouth and holes through

which Vermeil peeked as

they wriggled their way in

Belly’s rooms on out the door

GINGER

A defrocked priest in a hair shirt behind a snowy hedge

Is drinking whiskey and eating sesame seed cake

Watched by many sparrows waiting for fallen crumbs

Hears jingle bells jangling on the horse of a sleigh

Marvels at marvelous snowflakes falling everywhere

Is suddenly ecstatic as they melt on his gingery hair

Throws off the shirt thanking God he’s outside the church