my life already is overrun
with cats. Harry jumps on my back
before my morning coffee
whining for something –attention, or food.
He wants to know that I love him best, that I love
him still. Callie –eight weeks old –at a closed door
ready to pounce when I open it. She has been spayed, has the stitches
to prove it. Harry is not fond of the interloper, or me
when I bring her home after years of being alone
like me. Some things just don’t mix, we are tempting
the hands of fate and this poem is crap.
Begin Again 