Looking For Omens

Our cat looking like a low-to-
the-ground parade float moves
as if on wheels, stopping and
starting like CCTV footage, toward
a fledgling he’ll never catch.


Our two, almost grown pups lay
on their sides on the shaded tile
walk as if they had been capped
by a random shooter on his way
to the back of the house. Their
front and back legs are perfectly
aligned like clothespins.


After last year’s floods I think
it’s been too hot, too soon. I’m
a poet looking for omens. It’s
part of what poetry is good for.

FG March 2, 2012

All rights reserved by the author Forrest Greenwood.

I trace my poetic lineage back to those happy folks who use to read entrails for a living, although, God knows, they made more money than I ever have.