You live in the city; in the snow outside

paw-prints crisscross the lawn.

You wonder if the other animals ever get lonely.

 

Sometimes you feel like an Eskimo out on an ice floe

caught without a fishing pole

when it’s too cold to swim back.

 

Art’s a type of entertainment, a diversion

from the certainty of death, that’s all;

and once we know this it stops working.

 

Heartbreak’s a genetic condition; it killed my mother

after her mother died.

Now that you’ve gone it’s killing me.

 

Lear got it right about children, busy getting it on

with their lives,

sharpening their canines on your sleeve.

 

That’s why I love my cat—

he never forgets to call

though he’s a bright little assassin and has no thumbs.

 

It will be a lot cheaper not eating and less of a mess.

Here’s all I’ve learned about living:

you come alone, you go alone and in-between it’s a guess.

 

So I’m off to the gym;

when you get over the children, you’re finally free.

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