SAMANTHA

Samantha was a cat
at my Aunt Ann's house.
A smooth diary held
the clasp on it.
Wait just a little longer.
Hand me a down comb.
The free world walks
into a bar.
Me and the down-home
boys would and will
get into nothing more
or less than Aunt Ann's
house.
Montana offered me a
brisky Nebraska, only
to India give it, and
arm Austria with a palette
of palette knives that were
created for the sole
circus of clowning and
miming around the streets
of greed
without answering the
original question I had
asked it anyway.

But back to Samantha.
Samantha was a long,
black, slithering memory
in nostalgic sepia colors
that ate food and bit
people at Aunt Ann's house.

She wore an amazingly
alarmingly sharp tweed
coat that she kept clean
by licking it.
Her arms had black
cat hair and were very
large and muscular from
gym training and exercise.
The weekly allowance Samantha
was given was roughly
One hundred and sixty-two
dollars and zero-fourth
one hundredths
with a line after it
on the check.
If Samantha ever had
bills to pay, she would
stack them like a card
house in front of my front
door on the welcome matt,
and since my door opens
to the outside, an "outty",
I would knock over the
bills and feel embarrassed
as friends and neighbors
walked by.