Flying Cats

Flying Cats

You sip your coffee.
You take a bite of the sausage gravy, thick and salty.

The music playing in the diner is strange.
If music could be danish modern, this would be it,
streamlines and bleached, oddly pure,
in a language you cannot understand and yet somehow, do.

In a flash you are young and old,
moments of the journey like a roller coaster,
a madman’s collage with tunes.

And the words. Like a bad flashback scene, they come,
a B movie, or worse, lurid and darkly humorous,
other people’s words, each one a memory and a trigger,
leading to another and yet another.

Were I not so vibrant, it would be an end of life montage,
and you sit sipping, taking it all in, aware that no matter what happens
from here on out, you have survived the wreckages,
landing like a cat thrown out the window
so often you almost laugh when you fly,
knowing somehow, your feet are awaiting you below.

About this morning

The picture was taken in my office. The woman I love gave me the “Strong” figurine a ways into my cancer surgery recovery. I don’t see myself that way, but I have come understand that the people who love me most see me better than I see myself, and I should listen to them more. Part of my journey these days is that learning.

Another friend (I you read my first poem, you know what I mean, it is a morning of hearing other people’s voices in my head, mostly good ones.) often tells me I always land on my feet, like a cat.

Maybe so.

Tom

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