Monday 1 February 2010

Feline.














Curled up in a ball,
your fat, bald stomach shows.
Your expressions are expressionless -
could be pained;
could be hungry;
could be nothing.
Who knows?

But your eyes don't betray you.
You can't smile,
but I know you're happy;
I know you're calm.

You purr,
either trying to calm yourself
or me;
could be both.
Who knows?

I rub your spine
roughly
and you respond
by rolling your eyes back
and shaking your head
like you're having some
peculiar orgasm.

Legs outstretched,
you flex your toes;
your pads - your beans -
aren't as pink
as when you were teeny;
you cover your face as you sleep.

You got a bunch of shit
sticking outta your head;
you've even got whiskers
on the back of your legs;
there's one misplaced one
protruding from your cheek.

You're curled in a little ball;
the cutest thing,
with a broken spirit.
You don't know it's broken,
of course.

When you die,
we might replace you.
Probably not, though.
Who knows?

I bet you sleep so peacefully,
although you probably dream about
slaying field mice
and fleeing from foxes.

You watch your daddy
as he writes his drawn-out
poetry.
You're always hungry!
What are you thinking?
Who knows?

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