Night leaves holes in the sky.
Callous goat milk
leads a singing cat to slaughter.
Cows do not run around
like chickens with their heads cut off.
The eggshells Paul walks on
crack under his unbridled worry.
I stay up at night painting
word balloons for bleating sheep.
Paul trained the cock to crow
on the hour and carries it as his time piece.
When I see ghosts they are always people
not any of the animals I’ve butchered.
No matter how many barnyard cats live here
there are always plenty of mice.
I left the bible out and opened to random pages
hoping they would convert to church mice.
Paul stood up and danced after eating ice cream.
The brass section started up.
He planned his next confession
to be a musical number.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney