He claws the living room furniture,
eats bugs, paint chips, lint.
He chews electric cords,
chews the window shade,
pries the hair from his tail.
He swallows the hair.
"What is wrong with him?" I ask.
"He's just a baby," she replies.
She allows him on her side of the bed.
In the night, I am awakened by curious paws
marching across my chest.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Mornings, he follows me around the house,
shamelessly soliciting attention.
Having been up for hours
chasing ghosts and god knows what else,
his fleet disposition collides
with my waking stupor.
He will burst into a full sprint,
a peculiar warbling sound emanates
from his throat.
He leaps from floor to couch to coffee table,
back to couch, off my torso
and into the next room,
emerging seconds later as cool
as a hundred-dollar bill.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Taking him in my palm,
he licks condensation from my ice water,
licks my chin, lovingly,
then attends to his asshole.
When I eat, he eats.
When I nap, he naps (atop me).
When I pee, he reports to his litter box.
When I am in the shower,
he perches behind the clear, plastic liner
observing the kaleidoscope of movement
with childlike wonder.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Once, our Vet informed us he had
intestinal worms. The worms fed
on the bugs, lint and things.
We administered medication,
but the meds caused his litter to sour.
The stench would turn back armies.
I resolved to maintain distance
pending a full recovery.
We laid towels beside the fireplace
in an effort to seduce him from the bed,
only to awake with his curled mass
in an effort to seduce him from the bed,
only to awake with his curled mass
'round my head, motoring
like a crazed engine, a ticking bomb,
sleepy paws outstretched,
heart open as wide as the bedroom door
I failed to latch.
**First published in Peeking Cat Poetry magazine
heart open as wide as the bedroom door
I failed to latch.
**First published in Peeking Cat Poetry magazine
