David P. Kozinski, two poems

Black Cat Bone

“’Cause I’m a voodoo child.”

- Jimi Hendrix

Big houses turn me on.

Under the table

in her denim skirt

and dark tights

she owns a cat’s slow,

silent moves

and lips

that set my whistle

for a long ride

on a whipsaw road.

In the great room

at The Breakers we take

stately breakfasts,

lots of slippery surfaces

and rubber-meets-the-road

at a canter. Sunlight strains through doors

that open on pulsing masts

and stunted grass, the sighing sails

that wring most of the Hoodoo

from my hands

and leave the bitter bone.

We had trust and a future

that opened like a hatbox

and sounded like a bass drum,

took our time at New Year’s brunch

at the brightest hotel in Spokane.

Half the people

in Tabbi’s hometown,