Possibilities

It's possible that I'll find
you in the stew perking
on the stove

layered between the bubbling
of beef, sour cream
and mushrooms;

or gripped frantically
at the end of the cat's tail
holding on to self-preservation.

Often, I watch
you swagger
in with my beloved
at 6PM sharp

and listen to heated
debates with his zipper
over the frailty
of restraint's constitution.

But, normally, it'll be
on a rainy afternoon

while I sit in the oak rocker
while creaking to the rhythm

of pat, pat, pat
plate-glass complaints,

that you'll peek from Picasso
or Monet's brush stokes

reminding me
that they too,

were inspired
by someone else's
inspiration.