“Are you a nested poet, then?”
the hoity-toity cat simply asks.
“I have my cri cri critics,”
the Pine Jay stutters,
pouring herself another glass
of mock orange soda syrah.
“Are you going to mix
silver with orange, then?” asks the cat.
“I would rather arrange the orange
against this blue windswept evening.”
“That would encourage a paraorange
gown,” cynically suggests the cat.
“Scr scr scree!” the Pine Jay screes,
her voice trailing off like a jet’s vapor.
“Mock, mock!” the cat converses,
though alone now. “I never did like orange peel.”