kitten poem

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.