The cat, spread to soak heat
from the electric blanket,
looks up rueful and knowing
as a Traviata-courtesan who has seen much,
yet still put something by
for circumspect retirement. “I know,”
she says, “I am paid for knowing:
You believe yourself alone
in weariness. You,
you are an ingénue complaining
that life is unfair—and heartless besides.
Well, there’s nowhere to go back to,
and would you, really?
It’s no improvement being kept.
I should know. Go on to bed.”
She folds a paw for her soft head.
She sleeps.
Please login or register to comment.
Registration is required because of issues with spam. It is fast and free! This author would LOVE to get a comment from you, please join!
Comment added. You earned points!
Comments over 100 letters long (this was ) are eligible for points, which you can use to feature your work.
-
right now
Adding your comment:
