by Meg Baird

that big ol’ alley cat

has a head as broad as his shoulders

or maybe it’s a she

white as a white alley cat can be

Mr. Beauty has a smaller

more delicate companion

clean as a white alley cat can be

a friend, a sibling, a stray

it’s hard to say with alley cats

anyway, the name is Ms. Pretty

they’re often together

and known as a pair

by the neighborhood cat lovers

maybe they’re looking

for Mr. William S. Burroughs

protector and friend

of lost lonely lovely stray cats

he lived long and hard

and he looked long and hard

for a life metaphor of “the cat inside”

the un-tameable un-nameable urge

by Meg Baird

as I sleep

with the cat inside

wrapped in its lap

of luxurious fur

I am sure I am dreaming

one-third of our lives

we are dreaming

my cat purrs

its soft fur

is pushing me down

the weight of your arm

cross my heart

we are travelling through space

I am waking to face life

the part that is more real

or less so

I don’t know

the cat is inside

it is beauty and pride

it is good and it’s bad

it is happy and sad

are you weary?

relax

you are stressing the cat

by Meg Baird

I

pretty little Pearl

in her case of flesh and bone

lay curled

all she ever said, “Arr . . .”

II

Flora, bright flower

decidedly shocked

by all of her pain

and this strange environment

“It’s all very sudden,” she said

and without much adieu

she had fled

III

Evelyn, Evelyn

you’re gone so long

you didn’t waste and dither

you laid your long strong body down

and wailed your way to heaven

by Meg Baird

My friend Tom cat

is a gentle man

may he land on his feet

as he leaps out of the reach

of the outstretched hands

that he doesn’t understand

and they don’t understand

It’s just about time to

have a serious talk

Stage three cancer

maybe four

Somewhere between in his

chemo-laced platelets of blood

and the radiation blasts

to the tumors in his ass

which are grim to the intestines

within

my dear, dear friend

in the Sunrise Manor

house of the rising sun

public housing cockroach

bedbug-ridden hell hotels

the welfare checks

he calls being paid

the job search center

he calls his office

and he says he’s going

kicking and screaming all the way

what can anyone say

death has a way to it

same deal with every meal

going, going, gone

and we lightly on the surface

will sing and remember him

each in their own way

he will be gone

by Meg Baird

I once knew a woman

with Alzheimer’s

not funny, eh?

but anyway

she said something

all the time

over and over

all the f-ing time

she said

I can’t do this anymore

so the other night

I lay in bed thinking

about a song I’d just heard

and the line that stuck in my mind

was

I should have known

heard it again just now

but the group and the title slipped immediately

from my mind that had followed the following news story

and the word “gross at the end just biffed that group and title right out of my head

and can I find it anywhere with a reference to that line

well, you guessed it

all I can come up with are soapy, slimy lyrics and it’s not the tune

I was sure I had remembered the group’s name but oh, no

no such band

a recording company

so I’ll have to listen for it again

it’s a new contemporary song

I’ll get back to you

of course

I should have known

And then they sing

I’m all alone

I should have known

then there’s some lovely lines about good things

I should have known though

that was my point

it’s a perfect repeat line for a madwoman

I was thinking that the other night and I was feeling the same today

when I heard the damn thing

someone put an end to this

and that’s my point, too

someone do it for me

wish I could have killed that woman and put her out of her misery

by Meg Baird

my demons were chasing me

they linger even now

that morning’s light has come

I did not run with them

though they howled all night

I am wounded

I walk with scars

the bright light hurts my eyes

I am saved for another day

for yet another way

to dicker the price

by Meg Baird

as winter begins to thaw

the old dilapidated part of town yawns

the junkies outside the addiction control center

have eyes of exposed rock

their limbs are lean and mean weathered branches

a cache of desolate landscape

along the brightly colored, sagging, litter-strewn street

where the winos melt and the hulks saunter down

the main artery from the North End

the good city is always trying to clean that street

keep it from getting clogged

and causing a major heart attack

but it’s just dying of old age

living and dying every day, in every conceivable way

(Gottingen, in the area that I lived for awhile, was pronounced like “got-a-gin” and occasionally someone would refer to it as “got-a-gun street.”)

by Meg Baird

I say things now

I don’t know where they come from

But I do

This growing old is new to me

I only recently stopped digging my heels in

when I joined the Buddhist temple

and got the Buddha Bible or one of them

in translation of course so who knows

some of it gets through

It’s all Love

Love is all is what Tom used to say

Oh, yes the friends, family and lovers who are passing on

Or whatever, dear God, it is that happens

They’re still so oh so very much inside us

Gone to where we’re going next

That much we know but not the rest

It’s all Love

And that’s my mama

that pink porcelain egg

Planted one tip in

a Chinese flower pot

on the kitchen counter

by Meg Baird

some roads are built at night

star-spangled interstates

of mind travel

on wide thick ribbons

of nerve-drenched cement

wet in a romantic rain

by Meg Baird

remember

if you’re mad

it’s only in your mind

remember

to be kind

pray for grace

to speak sensibly

keep the body well fed and loved

remember

if it were not for the body

you would not be here

though it is the landscape

from which you paint your madness

contemplate this strange arrangement

that the keys you seek

serve only to secure you

death alone can release you

remember

it is said that sleep and death are brothers

the mind must go to sleep

the body must go to death

never the two retreat

nor two siblings rival so sweetly

(aka Janis Joplin)

by Meg Baird

she knew about that

glove on an iron fist

that shoe on the other foot

that dragging of salt

over an open wound

howling at the moon

she was made of it

a bed of oysters

swallowing grit

(past present and perfect)

by Meg Baird

there’s nothing new

that I can do

that doesn’t bring back memories

the truly new is a losing game

unless you’ve read some poetry

poetic thought like D.H. Lawrence

Ship of Death

a thing of beauty

bold and yet

so timidly it wings its way

towards the light of each new day

and if you love to go to sleep

sleep of the dead it’s said is deep

Be not afraid

by Meg Baird

it should scare you

embrace the caution of aging

it’s not that you like it so much

it’s inevitable and ultimate

it’s going to happen

it’s pretty impressive

if it weren’t so fucking depressing

listen to Cohen

read Cohen

he went through it

and baby he knew it

as far as I can tell

he’s not a false idol either

and I’m not saying

he’s an idol of mine

or anyone’s but I know he is

that’s ok

I have my own shit to share

and it’s sticking with me to the end

or almost

I’d like to go cleaned out

peaceful and very high

by Meg Baird

I wake as if I’m in a dream

It’s 2 or 3 or 4 AM again

my aching legs and troubled mind

say I must rise and move about

and have a jolt of nicotine

I’ve heard it’s really not that bad

It’s all the other crap they add

so slippers, coat and to the deck

I sit and light a cigarette

feeling old as old as dirt

but back to bed my legs don’t hurt

the radio is always on

to hear the news and other docs

the thoughts the thoughts the thoughts

decide revolt refuse

go back to sleep

by Meg Baird

I was walking and turned slightly

to see him in his wheelchair

looking at my legs

his were withered from polio

seemed he’d made the iron lung

part of his persona

squat and stolid and a lawyer

like Ironside, no lie

I was aware suddenly

of the energy inside my own

a burst of brightness

at about knee level

radiating up and down

a moment frozen in time

then he turned with a wide sweep

of his wheels and we never said anything

by Meg Baird

that well-worn phrase

for a woman your age

I often find that language

rhymes under pressure

hold her to the line

most of the time

go with your intuition

it’s always listening

knows exactly

where you’re going

you can let it

do the talking

listen

falling trees

and burnt debris

a forest fire in B.C.

maybe peace

in the Middle East

I heard it on TV

not everyone listens

not everyone cares

fair enough

(yes, I do)

by Meg Baird

yes, I do like the sound

of my own voice

it helps to ground me

yes, I do love my

intelligence and curiosity

no, I don’t mind being alone

we’re always alone

or we’re never alone

it’s the same thing

you can never own anyone

people have tried

and what a mess all that is

yes, I do love sleeping alone

waking alone can be a bit weird

guess you can’t have everything

by Meg Baird

lampshade with a yellow light

inside a room across the street

lamp lights a frame of aqua blue

graded shading through the gauze

of curtains in the upstairs flat

all the other windows black