The cats gather
en masse every
time I sit
down to write.
One by one, they
jump up on the
big maple desk,
and walk across the
keyboard.

Mojo swats at
Shadow's tail.
Bukowski nips at
my fingers as they
peck at the keys.
It's going to be
a long night.
The cats don't
understand poetry
or marketing.
Shadow hisses, and
jumps down.
Bukowski gets
bored, and bites at
the cords.
He gets overly
excited, and slips off
the back of the desk.
The wild look in
his eyes flash
centuries of power
and sadness.

I think of my feral
days on the streets,
stealing *****, and
sleeping under
bridges in
December.
I wrote my words on
the walls of the
abandoned
houses.
And now,
such beautiful
providence.
I quit drinking and
I live in a town with
a clear lake.  I catch
fish and eat them.
I've published three
books and I write my
poetry on a
computer that my
three cats view as
a playground.

Sometimes,
it all seems like a
furry dream.

Tell the loved ones, how much you love them,
waste no time, and it's no shame
because if silence, steals your word
it may be lost, and never be heard.

Don't defer it, to another day
what you feel, immediately say
we don't know tomorrow, what's in fate
it's too far away, it'll be too late.

If you willed, know it to be true
it's easy to say, I love you
when you hesitate, high will be the cost
chances postponed, are chances lost.

When they are with you, it's such a boon
to have the loved ones, so tell them soon
before time snatches away, you or them
with your love unuttered, heart unspoken.