I have no place for birthday cards.
Sentiments became folly
scattered on the floor.
There are no flowers in my vase, [pronounced VOZ]
for they do not permit it.
They insinuated themselves into my home
only to treat it with complete disregard.
What motives lie in ambush
beneath calm and sleepy exteriors?
Others are shocked
by the chaos they wrought.
They speak Fursee
and move with the shadows.
I no longer admire the beauty of
a Mexican bowl.
It is locked away for the eyes of no one.
There is no place for toilet paper.
It is shredded into clouds at my feet
And I must resign myself to Kleenex,
which is a brand name like Xerox.
They do not believe in wine, fine or otherwise.
So they knock the glass from my hand
splattering the walls.
They mock me. They sit on my muse.
They want their demands met
I have no place for Christmas cards.
The Fursee rings in my ears
as they careen
through my sanctuary, ricocheting off walls
like little hairy bullets.
They make love on my bed
and force me to watch.
My jewelry is not safe.
They have a crow’s fascination
for shiny things.
They steal it … hoard it,
exchange it for catnip
in dark alleys.
They intercept my packages
destroying the contents,
requisitioning the boxes for hideouts.
The big one stares into my eyes
demanding I stroke his long, stipe-ed arms.
The little one, in training, more cautious
as she tentatively taps my face
and drools on the pillowcase.
She wears all black.
They belong to the same faction.
My house is under siege.
Nothing is safe.
I have cats.