It’s cold—in the mid-50s. One catbird sits at the end of a dead limb overlooking the yard while her mate chases a rival, all in silence.



    Little difference between these scenarios, eh, Stick?
    The Post writes about a gory machete-hacking down
    the road. A menage a trois ends in beheading a lover.

    All depends on who or what or why one is a “lover”
    and get decapitated in a quite quiet neighbourhood
    where news of mating felines and hounddogs shock.

    The catbird chasing another while its tweetums
    perches nonchalantly on a dead branch is de rigueur,
    like a cut from a film noir where lust gets lustre

    when mayhem climaxes in an undeserved carnage
    and reportage labels it a jealous rage of a cuckold.
    Why can’t they just get along? Enough love to go around.

    But it’s cold outside. One cannot surrender the warmth
    of one’s bed to another and still be the same tomorrow.
    Ah, an axiom here: to every catbird belongs a catbird.

    Shut up, Stick. The silence of pursuit here is riveting.

    —Albert B. Casuga

  2. I’ll take the train to Morristown today, she said,
    and wasting not a breath she climbed
    the shaky steel steps into the carriage.

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