Two Poems

Tiger

The air is frigid and the cat
is mean. She bites me
every chance she gets,
always on the right,
like a regulation swimmer
turning her sleek head

for lightning strike of breath
or blood. Each night
the world outside frosts
over, ice forms on decks
and steps and windshields.
Now we'll have ten days of rain.

The cat's a high-pitched wail
when she wants me to get up
and feed her, when she wants
a chance to strike. She nips
my calves. At night she
worries me with her fierce stare.

 

Thrift

My mother called it London Fog
but the label says Talbots.
Even in old age she bought
the lesser brand, reveled in thrift.

Once it was chic, or semi-chic.
It covers me from throat
to mid-calf, has shoulder pads,
big olive plastic buttons.

Gray-green cloth with a hint
of brown, like camouflage,
resists gentle rain. So does
my sky-blue cotton hat's curled brim.

The coat floats, enfolds.
Silver-haired women smile at me,
eyes bright, on Northwest streets
awash in shiny puffy jackets and knit caps.