if you’ve heard
what has nine
lives and won’t come when you call,
its toys strewn about in the hall;
endlessly, when it isn’t asleep,
what falls head first and still lands on its feet;
what stays up all
night and naps all day long,
knows nothing of
shame, of right or of wrong,
what sheds on
every square inch of your home
and looks at you,
like you're missing a chromosome—
suggest this is all less than charming,
forbid, even somewhat alarming.
You're probably thinking, it's fuzzy and fat,
it starts with
a "K" and ends with an "AT".
It’s fat and it’s
fuzzy, but it starts with a "P",
there is a cat somewhere
around line 23—
the answer is
Paulie. My boyfriend. Ex, I should say.
all over now.
He maxed out my
credit cards, wrecked my new car;
he spent all his
time and my money in bars.
A guy like
Paulie, I guess it just figures,
all I got was
heartache and a cat he named Whiskers.
Whiskers is gray, he hunts and he pounces;
Whiskers, at least, gives me half-dead, gray mouses.
If cats had nine
lives I'd have cause for concern—
one life is one
more than Paulie deserves—
but you live and
you learn once you’ve been with a few—
when you lay down
with cats they walk all over you.