The Cat

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    The Cat

    Evening’s begun,
    That peaceful time of day
    When it is just you and I,
    And the cat.

    And he climbs into your lap,
    Like a small child
    Craving your attention - crawling over me
    Like I’m not there.

    Purring and rubbing his face
    On your face, cat kisses
    Greeting you like a lover,
    Home after a long journey.

    He lays his fat body across
    Your chest like a bed
    And relishes the stroke of your fingers,
    And the comforting beat of your heart.

    And I look at you, with that cat
    Sprawled across your chest,
    Purring and happy, and he looks at me
    Boastful almost, taunting me.

    And I can’t take my eyes off of you,
    And the cat.
    For a moment I am jealous
    Wanting to push him off,
    To put an end to his smug expression.

    I slide down, and put my head in your lap,
    Longing to feel the stroke of your fingers
    Through my hair.
    And you reach down and touch my face,
    And I’m no longer jealous,
    Of the cat.

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    babybmr58’s Poems (1)

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