if i die young
will my cat
long for my
whiskey breath
since each night he rests
on my dusty warm chest
with one worn out hand
laying on his back
torn apart fingers
stained with shellac
as i drift in and out of
sleep and surrender
a hard days work
of turning of timber
into delicate boxes
and other sweet
keepsakes
and a tired man
with tired whiskey breath
the cat blissfully breathes
in and out
two breaths to
each of mine
and we're
both feeling fine
me from the whiskey
and my faithful
companion
he from the ether
flowing deep from the canyon
of truths between the man and
the things that he wanted
but the whiskey is warm
like the cat on his heart
that is purring so low
like a train when it starts
and the dreams shared between them
are now simple and slow
and the soft breeze that dances
through the open window
and the sound in the distance
of the rumbling burn
where something bigger
might spring up in turn
but this sleep's drifting over
the man and his friend
and the whiskey breath,
the purring
crawling sweetly toward the end...
