Live trees with their fragrant cachet
aren’t meant for a feline sashay,
but when Willis the dog
gets the cat all agog
the tree can’t get out of the way.
Thanks to photographer Eugenia Roche.
Live trees with their fragrant cachet
aren’t meant for a feline sashay,
but when Willis the dog
gets the cat all agog
the tree can’t get out of the way.
Thanks to photographer Eugenia Roche.
They call him Fat Freddie
I think it’s a shame
a little more dignity
should attach to a name.
But in model comportment
he rises above
curled into the naps
he gets plenty of.
Tucked into himself
his postures astound —
would I sleep better
if I made myself round?
The cat seems to think
black as India ink
that the bed is hers
where she lolls and purrs.
But I say no
it’s my desk, and so
I invite her off
she snores her scoff.
Reasoning with cats
will drive you bats
it’s the fruitless worry
of the sound and the furry.
The purring creek
suns itself
under lacy flounce
while crimson, furtive
prowls
biding time to pounce.
I have been in an alternate universe
a place I have been before
where perpetual motion is rampant
and parents a mere twoscore.
There’s soccer and softball and homework
lives lived digitally
two kids, two cats, two dogs,
and Grandma (that would be me).
Mom in a sling and Dad far away
a convergence of planning and chance
with non-stop pre-teen rhythm
and flying by the seat of our pants.
I lived in a place such as this
in a dim and distant past
when I had an abundance of pep
and my hormones hadn’t lapsed
but now my creaky bones
move far less supplely
and I don’t know when I’ll recover
from the onslaught of energy.