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Saturday Night Feast

Tortoiseshell Cat

Evening at eight behind King Wok
the cold third day of spring,
sun had set, uncultivated shrubbery,
small parking lot, maneuvered my Taurus,
left my spot, no fender scrapping,
underway, a beautiful finality
of a near perfect day.

Glimpsed one tortoiseshell cat, at home or away,
momentary sighting, was it tan, yellow, gray,
emerged from the shadows stealthily sure,
a scene complete, nothing more.

Life is not beautiful, children starve...
there's enough riches on forests and farms
to share wealth without fear
or the gruesome futility of continuous arms.

Perhaps the answer is allusive,
come to the table without qualms,
share the blessings the earth reveals,
close the gaping wounds, begin to heal.

25th March 2002

Author: Roy Schoenberg - Bay Shore, New York, USA

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