BOLO
Max, the 19-year old cat,
has his spots and I have mine,
the places we look out outside,
suiting each of us just fine.
He doesn’t share his targets,
I’m sure they’re living, though.
I write about mine, the ones seen
through the patio window.
Sometimes he chirps a bit,
when he spies something notable,
but since I still don’t speak Cat,
none of it’s quotable.
It’s a fair trade off,
since he doesn’t read,
and I truly don’t care,
I just write what I need.
When he’s done, he drops his head,
curls up on his mat,
while I finish my little rhymes,
send them off in nothing flat.
