vignette
nights like this, i put-a my cat skin on.
i found it not a year gone by, in the alleyway behind bent, but not broken (which is the too old to be new, too young to be vintage shop where i scored me a teapot that whistles me dixie, i swear by my grandma's flowered apron: two verses, three choruses, and a key change)
on a night like this.
nights like-a this one, they're not so safe, not for a young lickle thing like i is, i is,
hip-high to a leprechaun and most aways pretty (specially when i smile my slow and open smile and tilt my head like my hair, she weighs too much. see?).
but i found it afore i got myself any kind of hurt, just an empty kitty coat a-lying in the alley dirt. guess the cat, he got too hotsome like (for this night, he was as heavy and wet and sweat as the air in my dixie pot just before she whistles), and he just shucked of his skin,
slip-slip, as easy as peeling me a plantain.
so i put him on. a wiggle loose shoulder-wise, a little little in the hips, but the coat, he fit me fine
mostly.
i took him home, my skimpy stray cat suit, and i washed him oh-so-careful like in the sink and let him drip-dry over a bucket like a pair of pricey silk stockings, just the way my momma, she taught me.
and one day, when i'm weary of my wandering ways (or maybe if i'm wandering co-pilot, or i have a handsome to wander home to), i'll think long and heavy
and then i'll shimmy out first one arm, then the other,
then a leg,
followed by my last limb,
all out of the skinny, sleek-buttoned borrowed duds.
and i'll leave it a-lying along the alley,
all forgotten-like,
for another itchy-footed girl to find.
i found it not a year gone by, in the alleyway behind bent, but not broken (which is the too old to be new, too young to be vintage shop where i scored me a teapot that whistles me dixie, i swear by my grandma's flowered apron: two verses, three choruses, and a key change)
on a night like this.
nights like-a this one, they're not so safe, not for a young lickle thing like i is, i is,
hip-high to a leprechaun and most aways pretty (specially when i smile my slow and open smile and tilt my head like my hair, she weighs too much. see?).
but i found it afore i got myself any kind of hurt, just an empty kitty coat a-lying in the alley dirt. guess the cat, he got too hotsome like (for this night, he was as heavy and wet and sweat as the air in my dixie pot just before she whistles), and he just shucked of his skin,
slip-slip, as easy as peeling me a plantain.
so i put him on. a wiggle loose shoulder-wise, a little little in the hips, but the coat, he fit me fine
mostly.
i took him home, my skimpy stray cat suit, and i washed him oh-so-careful like in the sink and let him drip-dry over a bucket like a pair of pricey silk stockings, just the way my momma, she taught me.
and one day, when i'm weary of my wandering ways (or maybe if i'm wandering co-pilot, or i have a handsome to wander home to), i'll think long and heavy
and then i'll shimmy out first one arm, then the other,
then a leg,
followed by my last limb,
all out of the skinny, sleek-buttoned borrowed duds.
and i'll leave it a-lying along the alley,
all forgotten-like,
for another itchy-footed girl to find.