White Pepper

A blue and white cat claws at my pant leg
Burying itself in the floor of its back
Rounded-off paws padded five times on each hand
Above its head and looking at me.

And I am drifting on by like a cloud of
White pepper dust caught up in the clutch of modern
Black pin-ball mechanics of our new generations
That don't stop their back-brain depressants.

Me on a high and feeling good like that cat
Who had all to live for lying on that floor
Clawing at specs of aerial dust, I come to roost
Like a pigeon in the sky going up with nothing holding me up