by Brian Flynn
“The cats will know.
You will hear words
old and spent and useless
like costumes left over
from yesterday’s parties.” — from “The Cats Will Know”
Yesterday, there was a cat festival on the boardwalk.
The old folks home ran a shuttle to and fro and the Seashore Pound brought a pride wide of kitties to play with. The townsfolk dressed up as their pussycat favorites: Siamese munchkin, Maine Coon, orange Calico, Persian, Abyssinian.
The felines spent most the day trying to rid the stench of humans from the beachfront.
“We didn’t have much in the way of disturbances,” reported a representative from Mayor Purdy’s office, “but the birds all up and disappeared.”
In the heat of the day, black cats paraded in the shade doubling as easels climbed by clowns after speed- painting portraits of the black cats on parade. Of course, the Great Grandmothers League shuddered with delight.
Remains of the Seashore Barbershop Quartet sang “The Cat in the Window” by Petula Clark. Last year’s trio’s now a duo. Today is the Funeral Festival.
At Sunday’s Antique Fest we’ll ponder vintage wine and words, tired and empty eulogies penned to fancy-up our disused cat costumes over the peaceful resound of birdsong and the ghost meows from countless such festivals.