he cleans his paws,
with a delicate pink tongue.
always the left first.
he is a cat of order,
not for him,
haphazard ways.
i sometimes wonder,
how he survives,
in our chaotic house.
but then,
i see him hidden up
high in the bookcase
watching us all, beneath him
dashing madly about,
with amusement,
quivering at his whiskers.
and after all...
he is...
the god of wrinkly things.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
he cleans his paws,
with a delicate pink tongue.
always the left first.
he is a cat of order,
not for him,
haphazard ways.
i sometimes wonder,
how he survives,
in our chaotic house.
but then,
i see him hidden up
high in the bookcase
watching us all, beneath him
dashing madly about,
with amusement,
quivering at his whiskers.
and after all...
he is...
the god of wrinkly things.
Request permission to use this poem