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The Poet Runs Over a Cat The poet's been in a rut for weeks. Blank paper is a white plague. He takes a cruise and runs over a cat. Sickened, he drives home and chugs a six-pack. After emptying his bladder, he wobbles back to the scene, like a character from Hitchcock who has to know. A crow lands in the road and pecks at the carcass. The poet feels rotten. On the way home, a poem comes to him. It's about running over a cat. It's about a crow plucking the eyeballs from the cat's skull. But he knows how to use metaphor. It becomes a poem about a figurative crow sucking the eyeballs of a figurative cat run over by a figurative poet in a rut. (The rut is literal, not figurative. That would be pushing it.) When he gets home, he fishes a discarded napkin from the trashcan under the kitchen sink, plops on the floor and begins to write. The words flow out as naturally as watery vomit after a book signing. He finishes in no time. Satisfied, he rushes to the bathroom and empties his bladder again.
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