Legs in the Lamplight

There they are,
the same legs there
on the same sofa. The same legs,
narrow, long, lumpy with
two paddles of feet at the ends,
the same feet that are always there, wired with hair.

And in the dark
I reach toward one
and bring it to me,
the movement of a foot and hand
in the dark of a room like music
or fragrant pools,
and my hands reach out to
pick at the big nail.
Work at it.
And my thoughts just go to
what?

The cat is there on the ottoman
under the window. She watches me
and somehow this makes sense in her
cat mind. Perhaps I’ll
push that screen out of the window
and let us both leave.
I won’t be there when she leaves,
and the same goes for her.
I will float through the canopy.
The future isn’t anything
that is
and isn’t anything
that isn’t;

it must be imagined
and before it is imagined
it is invisible.