The cat is a vaudevillian virtuoso,
waltzing and whatnot.
He shimmies and tangos, bopping
to an obsolete groove.
He’s on broadway, but we’re
busy watching broadway
on our shabby electric box;
it glows profusely.

Outside the moon
is at full strength,
casting shadows, not
light.

The moon gazes
at us, as we
cram popped corn into our
cavities, dropping miniscule pieces
down the flabby entrails
of the ancient couch.

The moment is
so saturated with ennui,
we start to drown.

The moon applauds the cat,
frolicking about.
Unafflicted by the
bourgeoise,
pretending in the
adjacent room.

At long last, someone
attempts a word,
but the language is
obscure.
We kill the television,
at some point,
and meander off to turn
our doorknobs
shut for the night.
But one is still left.

The cat
continues its
prance.