Cannibal
On my street there are different types of ladies:
The cat lady, the hoarder lady,Â
The bird lady, the whore lady,
The hermit lady, the dog lady...
And yet I don't recall any of them having names.Â
It's almost as if their entire existenceÂ
Has been morphed into that one obsession.
Did the cat lady integrate herself into the animal kingdom
With the third fluffy kitten she couldn't pass up?
Did the whore lady earn that scarlett letter
With the third man she thought she loved?Â
And they all claim they are happy—
Unable to explain why they are never satisfied withÂ
Just one.Â
Or why does the cat lady die with her last Himalayan?
Or why does the whore lady die with her appeal?
And so I've decided to die with myself.
Although I suppose that's what they all did.
On second thought...I guess they ate themselves up. Â
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Comments
Ricky this is so cool to read, love the urban vignette narrative you carry, and your interesting philosophical spin as well, what a graceful literary sketch this is, enjoyed poet
Thank you! I often like to integrate my own (often times iconoclastic) perspectives on life into my poetry by using the every day mundane things of life, like a cat lady. I find it makes poetry more relatable and interesting