Two-Fisted Hating on Poetry

1.
Death’s poor cousin Poetry
comes begging.
“Loan me a line.”

Death says,
“I can’t believe we’re
even related, you shameless
bastard — all the material
available to you if you’ll just work for it
and you gotta pull this.”

Poetry
responds, “It’s not like you can’t
spare it…endless last words
in your ears all the time and
you can’t toss me a bone?”

2,
Moonrise-faced gray cat
in a dark window across the street:
instant poem.

No need now
to meet the neighbor
or get to know the cat at all.

Instead, cut up the moment, butcher
your life for the meat of it, break it down
to parcel and parse, wipe the blood off your hands
onto your lips when you’re done. Such perfect things
come from your perfect lips. Anyone hearing you speak
would think
the cat was real.