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Cat Bartholomew Day

by France Burke

A cross
of cold-fire
aspic lard
just landed
in my Con-Ed
fly-ash yard.

Cowering
in the bullring
of the jungle-gym
paradigm
of holy lands,
Hugenots
in cat-suits
wrestle gristle,
hunched
and bunched
over the bounty
from the windows
of winter.

When bands
of kids from choir
bring doggie
bags to catch
their Saints in,
they leave the mess
on the flagstones
and secret them-
selves until
the rat pack passes.

 

France Burke will have a story in The Paris Review. (Spring 1975)


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