Waterbug

Little piece of the night

Little piece of the night fogs in through my door.
I am waiting for the cat, the cat who foxed the neighbors:
tiny cat out there in the night. Greg calls: "Your cat
is trying to get into our house. The children put out milk."
(Oh, now you're sunk; she'll never leave.)
Greg is afraid the fox will swallow the cat,
like the night. But the cat has come back,
come into my door like fog, is riding thorugh my night
(dark pierced with small cries like distant birds,)
settling on the pillow where she shouldn't be.
(At least right now she doesn't smell
like kitty litter.) The cat is waiting
for dawn and food. She knows it will come.
Perhaps she can make it come faster.

Pam

Cats at Sea

Cats make good sailors --
always rats in the bilges and lower decks
to keep them occupied and fed.
And they have the balance (close
to the deck as they are) and affinity
for motion to stave off sea-sickness:
Look at how our cat rides
my breathing chest without qualm.
And they can leap from level to level,
climb, hang on. And they know enough of water
to cherish what stands between them
and the waves. And, in the crowded decks
of a man of war, they know how to
keep themselves clean and respect privacy.
When the doldrums seem endless, no wind
for weeks, all the salted meat and hard tack gone,
no fish biting, not a bird in sight, endless heat
melting the pitch, no rain...I suppose eventually
they'll eat the cat -- after they've run out
of rats, weavils and shoe leather,
maybe.

Dean

Nauty kitten

New ship's cat, Gypsy,
came aboard recently.

You want me to talk nauty?
Here's some dirty talk, sailor.

She sneezes in my face.
I breathe in cat's snot.

Tiny little feet tread my pillow,
feet that have just
visited the cat's box.

Good thing I don't believe in
germ theory.

Pam