Thursday, February 12, 2026

The Golden Cat

 

I dreamed a golden cat rang my doorbell with its tail. 
He was carrying a small sun and walked past me in a hurry as I opened the door.  
The cat said, “Is dinner ready,” though I had never agreed to cook dinner for a golden cat.  
It sat on my couch, turned into a loaf of bread, then back into a cat, offended that I noticed. 
Melted butter was dripping off the wall, and we gathered it into pink and green bowls.  
The cat yawned, swallowed the clock, and everything felt finished and perfectly wrong. 
Wrong is good sometimes.
Georgia
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Words on a Kite

  Paper and string I may be,   With tiny bones blown by gusts.  The blue open sky knows my name,   Even my shadow lets go. Georgia

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