An exercise in repeating poetic rhythms that turned out to be about kitty snot. Bless you.
My kitty thinks he's a bloodhound.
His snuffling search for an answer
to questions no one can fathom.
Dysfunction? Yes, I am certain!
If searching brings him some wisdom,
I'll notice that in a second.
His tiny nose not designed for
the dusty task undertaken,
he suffers bad from congestion.
Who suffers more though I'm asking?
He's clever where he expels it,
A target never too distant.
Nothing is safe from his sneezes.
Could it be premeditation?
Happenstance can't be the reason.
An ankle, a hand;
computer or phone;
my homework or book.
There isn't a thing
that's safe from the goo
that spews from that nose!
An artist working his canvas
evolving patterns of snot-blobs
that dry upon my computer.
Why does he do this?
Is it just sharing?
Love can be gross I assure you.
I'm not so crazy to think it—
alone I'm not, for his sister
will often stare at him puzzled.