Mister Made of Flesh and Bone

I put my hand on Misters back

to feel the flesh and bone of him

and I was comforted.

By my pillow he curled to my hand

and my fingers found his toes 

and the softest fur of his belly and chest.

We curved into each other, 

cat and man,

and were comforted,

flesh and bone and heart.

Don’t You Love It

Don’t you love it 

when your cat walks up to you 

meows and looks at you

with that innocence you love

as much as you relish the surprising

size of his word-hoard, 

the soft skirls and rumbles

from his chest or that he can’t help

sometimes sounding harsh

though what he means is love

or a simple request like

“Open the blinds, Richard.

Let’s sit in the sun.”

When Mister Moves

When Mister moves

I always set aside the book

or close the laptop

to watch him groom, or stretch, 

which I especially love,

but once, blesséd moment,

he sneezed in his sleep

and it was so sweet

I couldn’t possibly put it in a poem,

but it touched me

and I laughed.

Pen to Paper

Again 

man and cat

outside in the sun.

Ten million years

or an instant,

all breezes, all fugitive.

Pen to paper,

hoping to keep a moment.

-Richard L.