Philip Ramp


 At 4.00 a.m. I hit the dark
for another day.
The cat moves away, hunches in malice-cats think
all right and when they do itís always something
bad - I work and the morning comes on bleak, the
way I like it I guess, more night giving up then
light. The pause that depresses; I flirt with the
extortion of some dark-hued serenity-maybe I
should tickle it till it laughs or dies laughing. The
day is rather like the cat without ideas, the breeze a
misanthropic murmur having only me to please. So
I look in on the cat. She's asleep sprawled on the
floor: a joke trophy.
Then the light comes in off the balcony
like afastball.
The day isn't as bleak as Iíd thought. But
minimal: excruciatingly minimal like the
erupting space Iíve just read about. One of the
last birds around here sings: whatís - the- use,
whatís- the- use.