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?