poet

Péter Kántor

by this poet

poem
The old kitten is replaced by a new baby kitten
the old dog by a new pup
like a dead Monday by Tuesday.

They stroke the new kitten in their laps
so that their excess affection won't go sour,
so that it will love them in return, like the old one did.

But for me they aren't replaceable,
not the kitten, not the
poem
Lord, I'm tired,
the bunion on my right foot is throbbing,
I worry about myself.

Who is this anguished man, Lord?
it can't be me,
so woeful and sluggish.					

I would like to trust quietly,
but like waves in the ocean,
tempers bubble up in me.

I try a smile,
but some hairdespair
impedes me.

This isn't all