The kittens in the window
sleeping on fake fur and fleece
do some scratching and searching
for dents and lumps
to fit their still frail and flexible
bodies not much bigger than a shoe
or the slippers I throw at them
only when they are destroying something.
The lightbulb rigged to keep them warm
even as they look out the window
at the storm and marauding tomcats
makes their crinkly noses and bean-like footpads
turn pink. They sigh and yawn
and turn upside down to warm their bellies.
Their bellies are taut with mother's milk
but when she comes leaping to join them
they root and nuzzle to find a tit.
The other big cats, the aunties, go to work
on the other ends to clean up the result.
But the trespassing tomcat bro doesn't like all this.
He grabs an auntie by the throat too hard.
My bamboo backscratcher, hanging in reach,
Is just the right length to give him a rap.
The kittens stare at me, round-eyed.
They had forgotten me.
Back to sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment