Photo by Cihat Dede (Pexels)

Cat Ass Trophy,’ ‘On a Date,’ ‘The Last Morning’ and ‘In the Closet

Adeline Lyons


The feline rump

scaled the highest hump

and won the medal

of premium pomp


No, wait—


The proper pussy

was in a hussy

after settling the big tushy



Or, was it—


The chaotic kitten

was instantly smitten

with the butt of a smoke

and took up dope


Forget it… 


picture perfect please

he said across the table.


are you able to enable

me to touch you finally?


I’ve waited all night.


your smiles cut, said he

who paid the bill.  your voice


too shrill.  would you mind

sealing those lips and


shooting me a kiss?


the tablecloth seemed friendlier

than anyone I’d known:


blue and white checkers

crossed like waves


on the beach I roamed alone. 


I did not pick the flowers for you.

I did not pluck their heads for you

and certainly did not strew them around the room

to pleasure you.

It was early and I couldn’t sleep.

I needed something new to look at

so I went to the yard and culled a bounty

of lilacs peonies lavender

some of them yours, I know,

and went to the kitchen for the scissors.

I left the stems in the sink for you to remove.

Certainly their stalky green is enough beauty

                     for you.  Certainly enough

mess for you to undo.  As for the flowerheads

in the living room: a broom will do. 

In the meantime I’ll follow you in my mind,

at your heels as the days ensue;

I’ll keep my eyes on the image

of you, which hangs impressionistic

in the inmost cavern of my skull:

dainty, decorative, flowerless. 


When picking out the pants appropriate

for the occasion of a new day, I usually

consult my almanac of “potentials”

which I keep under my pillow.

It consists of two lists.

One, the impending gloom

outside my door which manifests

in hoards of mayflies or flattened tires

or sticky steering wheels or inappropriate

glances or well-tempered reactions

to things that deserved an outcry.

Two, the dazzling encounter I will

inevitably have at the corner of my street

when waiting to cross and seeing

you, my one-and-only-non-existent-true-

love standing there and on the crosswalk

staying there for days and days.

The pants I choose have everything to do

with the list that jumps at me that morning.

And that is why, for all who keep asking,

I cannot hang tonight because good sleep

might help me choose the second list

and wear long leather bell-bottoms


Adeline Lyons is an emerging poet and writer from the Hudson Valley region of New York. She is a full-time student in the English program at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. When she is not writing, you will likely find her playing the cello or guitar, painting, reading, or conversing with the lovely humans with whom she shares time and space.