Not Sandburg

IMG_3918“The fog comes
on little cat feet,”
wrote the poet who
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


Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s