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
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

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