Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Poem 162

She comes in about 2 am
This wild thing that lives with me
She smells of crushed grass, damp soil
tree bark
She puts her paws
on my outstretched arm
drops down with a sigh
and headbutts my chin
The rumbling comes quickly
sleep too
And she'll lie there all night
as domestic as you please
But when the first light comes
Her feral self wakes me
Wants out
Needs to wander
and I shift from friend to captor
Until the terrace door opens
and springs her free

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