By Barbara Alsop
The soft paw strokes my face
purr rumbling like a deep earthquake.
Light through the window announces
a new day, pulling me out of the abyss
of sleep to the scattershot of traffic
and outdoor conversations.
The cats demand food, fight,
stir the atmosphere like a thunderstorm
popping up on a hot summer day.
Do I roll over and dive deep again
or begin the travail anew of getting
through? On my feet at last and
stumbling out to morning ablutions,
cat food cans, a.m. pills, and coffee finally.
And for what? Brilliant sunshine, smell
of fresh-cut grass, silken cat fur under
my hand. Writing flows for a time,
like the river Jordan, or at least a small creek,
before the phone rings and the world intrudes.
About Author:
