Not Sandburg

IMG_3918“The fog comes
on little cat feet,”
wrote the poet who
obviously
never lived with cats,
never sat, trying to write
through cat cavalry charges,
big cat thundering down the stairs,
small cat skittering after,
nails clicking on oak risers.

In the night,
a little fog would seep
so quietly beneath
the wooden bedroom door,
leaving me asleep.

No fog this:
pounding on the panels,
rattling the hinges,
complaining, cajoling,
lying about an empty food dish,
insisting it’s already morning,
demanding dawn and food and me.

A few hours on, fog comes
filling my head with cotton,
brought by morning cat feet.

June 17, 2015

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