My kitchen tabletop is a book- and paper-sheathed rink
as Bigglesworth paws at and bats a pewter-colored
pebble Hope under paper and then off on to the floor.
Faithful retainer I am, I place Hope back on the table
for Bigglesworth to swipe and knock to the floor
again. I’m charmed, clear a third, then two-thirds
of the table for a larger rink. This is where he loses
interest, drops to the floor and wanders off to cat bed
or couch for a nap. I remain, because this is where I now
do the bulk of my writing—here at the kitchen table.
For once, the fine line of red dew-dropped scratch mark
is from Angel—not Bigglesworth, not Hobie Cat (I can’t
remember Hobie Cat ever scratching me intentionally.)
I don’t punish them. When I get scratched I might end
our play for a while. After all, they are cats, fur soft
so soft under my hand, purr so pleasing to my ear. Human,
pet us. Thoughtful now, I see how cats leash me to life,
me to them, them to me: human, fill our food dishes;
human, fill our water bowls; human, our boxes are full
empty them now; human, where are the treats? Human,
we are napping, sleeping, dreaming winged dreams.
I’m left with the admonition Hope, sitting here writing,
daydreaming winged dreams full of paper and print.
Andrew Shattuck McBride
September 30, 2012
PaPoWriMo ~ 2012 *Day Six Poem*
Bigglesworth and I Bat the Puck Hope,
Write, and Otherwise seek Sustenance*
* ~ My ideal format for this title at this moment!
My cats Bigglesworth, Angel, and Hobie Cat are shelter cats. I always tell friends and acquaintances that my cats saved me far more than I ever saved them.