and keep talking. Coffee fresh from the pot couldn't warm me any better,
or make my cat eyes betray me and follow any more closely.
This is not my usual haunt. I do most of my waiting
high in the sharp black branches, stuck on a thorn and seeming to sing.
If I go silent now, Majesty, please don't mistake my mood as so many always have.
Would the world end, if I brought my kiss out from shadows
where I have stored it against claw-cut strangers and foggy, distracted loves?
It would at least stop me from talking, this once, eh Highness?
King of November, ruler of a random moment,
turn up the collar of your coat, and by your leave, I will curl myself there,
smaller than usual, an ornament of warmth and pretty utility,
maybe even content, too, until the next breeze arrives
to remind me of my penchant for Queens
and the sweet impossible joy that cats can never claim.
for Get Listed, with grapeling