I don’t have a cat

my cat is pregnant
while the same spider
‘s
web sits intact
droplet mirrors
hanging from the
strands, a fat brown spider
still, as the wind blows
his web stretches comfortably
as if immune to the elements
outside my 5th story window
inside the grease is hot
the corn fritters drip fresh
hot grease on the newspaper coated
paper plates of my existence
my woman
Mrs Buterworth
wants me to pour my
love under her dress
all night once again
shaking the prison
bricks falling
on passerby’s
sexy women in high boots
under their skirts
my lonesome pussy
waiting 4 my mandigo obsession
but they travel up-market
in search of girly men
who fuck them
as an after thought
so much for the fat old lady
she swears ever since
Jack-in-the-Box closed
59 cent hamburgers
Broadway has gone up market
poor people
stay home
go to the food bank
and wait for the truck
with the meals on wheels
wait for the WIC juice
to go on sale
at QFC
wait for your food stamps
and know what you could have done
if I’d only finished college
I could eat in those
restaurant’s too
restaurant’s filled with carefree
smiling fagots
drinking tall drinks
with fruit juice and those little umbrellas
and marichino cherries
I don’t really
have a cat