Living Alone With a One-Eyed Cat
by Mike Faran

Mornings I hear the
whoosh of cars trucks & buses on
the damp windy boulevards

Sometimes I wonder about
waffles & wish I’d
paid more attention when she was

still here. It’s called a waffle iron,
she’d whisper as if I couldn’t
be trusted

And I always wanted at least three -
hot enough to make butter scream &
to bubble the syrup

but cool enough to eat after stirring
my mug of black coffee

Now there’s only this one-eyed cat
knocking around an
empty beer can in the dark corner &

these two eggs that I’m afraid to crack

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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