the black cat and I
are sitting up late,
watching heavy metal videos.

we’ve seen a few black cats on screen.  
not many, and all were yowl-faced and claws out.
my companion seems completely unimpressed.

for tonight at least
I’m in love with hair band guitars,
with fast necks and eldritch angled bodies.

I’m in love with the moody faces of the balladeers,
the near-machismo of their eyeliner — everything
about the music, in fact, except for the music itself. 

I think the cat feels about the same
as she leaves for the kitchen to seek food
just before I do.

kitty seems disinclined to be heavy metal angry
as she rubs against my legs, snaking between them
like a wisp of dry ice fog.  I open the fridge.

ain’t no demons in there I can’t gobble up
but just for fun I brandish a stick of string cheese
like a microphone, tilt my head back,

mime a scream.  the cat waits patiently
for me to get over myself.  “if you think that’s
gonna happen any time soon,” I tell her,

“you got another thing coming.” I throw
a split in the middle of the kitchen for good measure,
and surprise myself by not injuring anything this time.