I’m in a cage of mundane things
straining towards passion
but forced to focus
on mundane things.
Such is the life of a captive poet.
Marko brings his love to my lap,
sure I’ll jump up or
deny any minute
his right to exist.
He is so vulnerable
so insecure. He’d be
jealous if he were braver
but all he can do is
hunger for love
long for affection
beg for attention
sure that any minute
it will be snatched from his paws.
Ah, my furry son.
Can adoption convey painful DNA
along with a vow to love and protect
and take yearly to the vet?
He turns around and settles down
claiming his space alongside my leg
his left arm stretched out on the afghan
as if to declare with false confidence “Mine.”
He will lie there, happy and adoring
until evicted by a sudden sneeze
or the sight of his domme of a sister.
We understand each other.
Revel in what you have
but take nothing for granted.
When in doubt, wash.