Sunday, April 17, 2011

O is for

On my morning walk I see nine
cats on the neighbor's porch, lined
up nicely, as if some designer
had arranged them with an eye
for form and color.  Plump gray Godiva
spreads herself, cushion-like
across the rocker seat.  Old white
Rocko, once her swain, trys
to take over but wins just a tiny
corner of the chair.  He sits straight upright
and scowls down at her.  Five
tiny anonymous red kittens lie
like beanbags in a pile,
their tortoiseshell mother, Jumble-ayah
by name, curls like a smile
around them.  And high
on the porch rail perches my
Rusty cat, copper penny bright,
and wondering why
he now sings soprano in the neighborhood choir.

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