Feeding the Cats

by Malcolm Robert Willison

–again!  I fed them an hour ago

at 3 a.m.  And why not now?

They like to think they’re special

and that we love them.

They complain to us midnight and midday

just I suppose to have something to say:

the little one at 5 a.m.

twittering in his throat

or running across our sleeping faces.

Then the big one comes and chews on my poems

–flung pillows make not much difference

to him or the poems.

But then, he loves to eat whatever

having so much weight to tend to.

Now he’ll finish his dish

and after looking up

to make sure

there’s no more coming

he goes off to sleep.  The little one

sniffs his dish

and turns away

too finicky for anything.

Such is our household

the day before Trump.