La Flûte

La Flûte

Cat watches from the bureau's edge,

white mask floating

in lamplight's amber resinous halo,

as I lift this hollow reed to my cracked lips—

You sound like a dying bird,

whispers my rakish aura,

survivor of the chalkboard wipe.

The cat wants to eat you.

No judgment in its appraisal,

But not no curiousness

in its nine lives eyes.

Her tail conducts me

an orchestra and I try to play along.

The room breathes around us—

paint peeling old lungs,

heavy with the leave-behinds

of someone's careless living.

Why this? the voice alleges.

Because the cat sits vigil,

my fingers find the holes,

notes cut the ringing.

© 2025 Scott Holzman. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce, repost, or use without permission.