Wouldn’t you know it.
The cat in profile smiles at the light,
the rain is just a little sound on the metal
of the roof—out of season.
The cat doesn’t dance and I wouldn’t watch
if she did, Her little soul though
dances tonight, she is so pleased we are alone.
She smells the roast in the kitchen
and for my sake appreciates its progress.
There is a little fire burning: sawdust pressed
into a log and sold for a dollar keeps the light
the right tone and the heat up, although
it isn’t really cold. No one is dancing,
the candles have been punched out
and the amber has worn off the hardwood box.
Even the music, if it were playing, would make it
not different. No even the rain or the food.
It doesn’t matter little friend.
No one’s dancing here tonight—wouldn’t you know it.