In Defense of Poetry: A Coping Mechanism
By Woody Woodger
1.) Midnight, Saturday February 6th, he let the cat out. My other uncle’s cat, Alphonso. He was every inch a Persian. The curtainy fur that looked painful when ungroomed, the kind of esthetic minutia that feels like a moral quandary. His eyes were the same blue saved for the Mary’s dress in Ruben’s assumption and sour with crimped eyebrows. Uncle Brad thinks his cats are his kids. I’ve made what I feel is a fairly safe prediction: it will take approximately 3 years for Brad to get another. With an additional 5 months for hemming-and-hawing, trying to find just the right replacement.