Tired Cat
TIRED CAT
Get home from hell in the metro at six thirty -
He’s at the door to meet me.
Get my boots off as he rubs my legs.
Try to sit down and get some tea, he wants to be fed,
He’s exhausted - lying on the windowsill all day in the sun
Watching the cars go by.
Cat food tin opened, water in the bowl : at last I sit and drink my tea.
Paw-licking, face-washing, ear-kicking, stretching.
Then he wants to pour himself all across my lap
And purr loudly across my ears as he watches tv with me.
He’s bored with no one to talk to him all day.
He stalks slowly round my head , waving a twitching tail in my face,
As the newscaster explains how the two teams
Almost came to blows over a disputed goal,….what goal? Missed it.
Now I’m tea’d and sausage’d, and ready to pick him up:
Psh-wsh-psh -wsh. . . . . pssspsspsspsss. . . . . come to daddy -
He turns his one-eyed side to me and slowly walks to the door:
Forget it buster. . . . . . I want out.
He’ll be out most of the night, running his cat-business,
Then scratch at the window about three in the morning,
And come in and sleep on my bed, exhausted.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
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