Horatio, you sly and cunning feline.
You think you're smart.
Yes, you think I don't know what
you do when I go to work.
But I know, old boy, I know.
I know that you clean your slick gray fur
in front of the mirror.
I know that you make sure that
your collar is straight
and that your whiskers are trimmed.
You have to look your best
when she's there, don't you?
I know that you invite that calico
from the garden over
when I'm at work.
I know that you two play my Coltrane records-
to get you in the mood.
I can picture you two tapping your paws
and bobbing your furry heads to the beat,
feeling the groove,
digging that sax.
I can picture you laying next to her.
Your tail moving like a pendulum,
Your yellow eyes giving her
that "come hither look."
When I come home,
there is a plume of blue cigarette smoke
hanging in the air
and there are two empty wine glasses
with paw prints on the coffee table.
And you Horatio,
lie there in the blanketing sunbeam
from the window,
pretending to daydream of mice.
Copyright © Matt Kindelmann | Year Posted 2005
The rat tiptoed to the house, picks up a thread
While the soft spoken black cat is, still, in bed
Sleepy, but, she is to battle it, to win, for today
To gain her breath, in solitude, for another day
At first, she will fetch water, from a sacred well
Passing through the silent field of fears, of hell
While the sympathetic morning moon watches
And giving her consoles, with uplifting touches
Of hopes, to warm her shaken, but noble heart
From the cold of early morn, that torn her apart
Before the fading moon could bid her goodbye
Her tiny feet has swollen red, like a chicken fry
The rat sadly waves her bye to the fading moon
She kisses gladly the first crow, with her broom
To sweep the scattered butts, of Marlboro Light
Before favored kitten come, and give her a fight
She uses her magic matches to light the sticks
Delicately set at the center of a three big bricks
Eggs and bacon, with riz Cantonese to prepare
The boiling silvery pot, patiently, waits her care
While the family feasts, the rat runs to the room
To fix the beds’ pleats, and then, she will zoom
To clean the ruin of wars, on the two slab tables
Before, she finds herself drown, in little bubbles
Her paled skin got burned, from the blazing sun
While the soft spoken black cat enjoying the fun
Of watching, the afternoon entertainments show
That the rat never sees, for she has list to follow
But, before the day ends, the poor rat was bitten
By the soft spoken black cat, left.....right up to ten
That made her soul cries, under the mango tree
Hides her tears, in the dark, no one will ever see
Only when the soft spoken black cat’s gone away
Thus, the rat feels happy, for she has time to play
In a world, where no creatures exist, but, just her
She now lives in illusion, in her own, fake laughter
The rat has beaten many times the first cockcrow
For the soft spoken black cat, not to live in sorrow
Till she left her, nothing, but full of fear and wraths
Forever haunt her, even if, she takes dozen baths
O God, the rat has a phobia, ‘cos of this black cat
Won’t you ever pity seeing her sleeping in a mat?
Or when somebody, with shot, scratches her tail?
For I cannot stand, seeing how human beings fail
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2006