Snapshots

That backyard cat was screaming bloody heat all by her lonesome as
we wrapped up in her orange duvet,  Springsteen spun.
On top the granite counter we signed by the X, crossed ourselves
and it smelled like rain.
Black coffee microwaved, hot quiche, toast and egg yoke.
Some writer from the LA times keeps quoting Einstein and Poe.
Baseball's back.
The wine's black, the tub's too small and the candle shows shadows
up upon the wall.