being a cat

rain, again, pounding against the windows
again, no warm sunlight, none
for basking and keeping the cold away
in summertime they don’t turn on the heaters
chimney fires are only for the cold months
when the leaves outdoors crackle
or the ice gets stuck everywhere
today the yellow rays can’t filter anywhere
from windows where it’s only gray beyond
only shadows on top of the bookcase
no gold runs across the thick Persian rug
(although it’s pile is deep and cozy)
nor decorates the red leather armchair…
and they wonder why I’m not purring
in befuddled contentment today!
I’m cold, dammit!



being a cat
[2007.22.8…a]