The morning sutures broken slats: in bed
we talk, smoke seamlessly. Our low tones wake
the cats -- they stretch out on the quilt. Claws rake
a breakfast chord; we're out of tuna spread.
Four drowsy flies buzz waltzes overhead;
tomorrow there'll be rain, another quake
in Ecuador, drowned sailboats in the lake.
Today we're spring in Nice, the crispy bread
fresh from a baker's hands, two marigolds
that twine at stem. The hair balls on the floor
are ghosts of furniture we've used as pawn.
In rented flats, the weather never holds
for long; the landlord's knocking at the door.
The cats, in all their innocence, just yawn.
Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy where she serves as an editor at Italian Niederngasse. Her work has previously appeared in Stirring, 2River View, Verse Libre Quarterly, Triplopia, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Midwest, Drexel Online Journal, Melic Review, and Tryst, among others.