Friday, August 17, 2012

The Continuing No Shame Poetry Series Presents "The Cats Are Driving to Work"

The Cats Are Driving to Work

The cats are driving to work

Clutching their commuter mugs in their right paws
Holding the steering wheel of their BMW 523 convertibles
In their left
Sipping down strong black coffee, no cream, thanks.
The days of cream are over for cats.
They have the top down although it's 43 degrees
and although they wear fur coats by default
It's cold at 26 miles an hour as they grind through the

They are listening to traffic and weather on the 8's
From the Catnip-Enclosed Nerve Center
Of WCAT-FM but not really hearing it.
Occasionally, lacking fingers, they lift a paw to
Other drivers in honor of their thoughtful and excellent driving (not).
 It means "You're number 1! Keep up the good driving!
Thank you so much!" (Not.) They snarl behind the windshield
Want to kill and eat something rodentesque
But there are only other cats as far as the eye can see.

All the cats are thinking of meeting upon meeting at the 
Office, gossip by the water cooler, memos written,
Memos read, memos unread, the chance to be catty
About some loser in the office
(they told me this is what they think about).

In just a few hours they throw it into reverse
And crawl their way home where they will wonder
If the humans asleep in the corner have slept all day
And envy them their simple, easy life.

The cats are driving to work but
They're not liking it,
Not one bit.

--Dan Verner

1 comment:

  1. We need to do a compilation of commuter poetry--imagine the sales! I like this, particularly the grinding thru apt! In keeping with the idea of pets vs. workers...


    Today, on my way
    from nowhere to nothing,
    intent upon my lack of progress,
    I caught sight of a car,
    rattling and racing
    carelessly round a corner.
    A doggy face hung out the window
    grinning at the rocketing scenery
    (if dogs indeed are capable of grins..)
    It made me smile
    (if indeed I am yet capable of smiling)
    and I wondered if I could
    muster the courage
    to poke my head out of this traveling box
    that I inhabit--
    to risk the flying grit outside my window,
    and once, just once,
    electrify my senses,
    glory in the speed,
    and once, just once again,
    know the power and the wonder
    of that self-styled breeze:
    the slipstream of my journey
    from here to somewhere:
    like that beatific dog,
    ears flying.