It is a sleepy Sunday with the cat in the window, the clock ticking and the rain.
Me smacking my lips, tonguing my teeth as a lion might a sinew.
House cats are no different than their counterparts in the wild, with their boxing glove paws.
And why do they preen and sleep so much?
Because they have nothing to worry about but themselves, as any powerful nation might.
(You see, the amount of privilege you have is measured by how much you waste.)
I will go back to my book and my recliner now, my streaming opera, this kernel in my gum.
Pull the Starbucks cups out of the trash and recycle them, toss an apple to the deer out back.