The rumbling cat circles the chair,
wondering what wakes me
at this hour. A reassuring stroke
or two between lines,
and she puddles beside
in tail-wrapped satisfaction.
Heir to a hundred insignificant sufferings
which scurry and gnaw
at the underpinnings of slumber,
half-awake and fumbling for gratitude,
I choose enough small misery to write.
Don't scare up ambition to rhyme
or scan, or make myself look good,
or put lipstick on the false smile
of swinish apathy wallowing muddily.
Cold, clammy soil suits and soothes my mood.
There is a hunger howling
in hours dark with early morning
for a gentle scratch behind my ears,
a soft hand welcoming my nuzzle;
a nesting ground of warm worn cloth
smelling of home and family
where I can pad its perimeter,
curl into myself
and sleep.