A flea bitten, moldering, good-for-nothing mooch.
All but deaf, she loudly screams:
“Feed me! Feed me! Feed me!” at my front door,
too good to go to the back porch where her dish is.
“Yeah, I can hear you already!”
Can opener grinds its way to stinky food,
plopped from the can and
her engine is off and running.
Scratching behind her ears
while she’s too busy to notice and run away.
I wonder how many more years
she’ll stick around
before moving to New Jersey
or wherever they go?
Yeah, one day I’ll go out
and the little shit will be gone,
then I’ll miss her sorely.
Francesco says cats are living proof of alien life.
I say yes, they must be from another dimension
all I need do is wait long enough
and another will pop up to adopt me.
I never did figure out why my allergies
chose them as the culprit, and I hear tell
of cats sold without the accompanying
red eyes, runny nose, and prescription meds.
But who will love the mangy pussy if not I?
I imagine they keep me around
‘cause I can open cans,
otherwise I suppose
I’d be considered a lost cause
and they’d go back to playing with
small birds, lizards and mice.
Then too, maybe one would scratch my ears
or curl up to keep me warm
if I were lost in an alley.
That would be nice.
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