roscoe

he delegates
a used gray
T-SHIRT
splattered with my bedroom paint
to sundays
and sleeping in late

there is nothing average
about his eyes
or his salt and pepper
goatee nuzzling
my inner thigh

he daydreams
with his head on my chest
in the wingback chair
i slide my fingers
through his light silver hair

he purrs and kisses
my milky white breasts
he whispers we need
to kiss more and talk less

i tell him, "i can't speak cat anyway."

i sit cross legged eating a croissant
peeling layer after buttered layer
giving him every other flake
touching fingers to lips in prayer
stuttering past my usual mistakes

we lounge on lazy swings
in the cottonwood afternoon
we posture against the clouds
until we plunge into the moon
he whispers,
"girl, do you have to leave so soon."

i tell him, "I don't have nine lives....

this one has to count."

08/26/2011

Author's Note: For Amy and Bella's cat Roscoe. We had a lovely August together..... Too bad I am allergic to you. XO

Posted on 08/26/2011
Copyright © 2024 Lori St. George