Poetry

The Nigger in the Woodpile

It wasn’t for “The Nigger of The Narcissus” that my cat, black As sin or soot, was named, but for His colour pure and simple, save For fierce blue, soul-divining eyes, The most heavenly part of him. My father, picking up the wood- Heap chips too hastily to heat Bath water with got shit on his Fingers and drowned the beast, despite Once having expressed wonder at An animal’s fastidiousness In covering up its excrement. And even though he may have used A bag because he knew he’d fail To stand the piercing look he’d get, I still to this…

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