My personal attendant, the best that can be, who for years had catered to my slightest whim brought home a small black box that matched her TV and my cloudless existence started to look dim.
My hand decorated, elegant, always clean food dish is not always filled promptly while I sit and stare!
Some furniture is gone,some was switched around: sofa that smelled so good, soft beyond compare, was summarily thrown in the garbage bin.
I miss it every day, even though I've found the easy chair - recliner - that took its place for a safe nap haven. But she sits therein most of the time she's home, staring at a screen on which rows of squiggles move in funny ways.
To boot, this black, hard and very bony lump she cuddles to her knees or presses to my back shifts and makes clicking noises that wake me up when on the chair's arm or footpad I jump to take a much deserved and restful cat-nap.
The worst is yet to come: often her voice drones as she reads aloud what she calls her "new pomes" stressing syllables, mixing rhythm and rhyme,
counting strange feet in lines of metered verse instead of sitting still, so I can stretch mine in her lap. I wish she wrote free verse all the time!
I sometimes take refuge in a closet, deep, where her voice reaches only as she calls me in for important events, such as "brush" or "din-din" but no poetry readings interrupt my sleep.
Muffins, Shadow, Friday - let me tell you that life is not all purrrs, for an internet poet's cat!
dictated by Magick to Izabel Sonia Ganz May 5, 1999
