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.