Wednesday, February 1, 2012


Whit took his time cleaning himself
on my keyboard, focused on his left 
ear, his (there's something off about them)
orange eyes focused on a thing
I couldn't see, the light
from my window wasn't enough--
I was wrapped in a blanket and flannel and
plaid patterned pajama pants, I wanted to
continue my edits--Whit kept cleaning,
left leg scratching his face, tapping keys
underneath his feet--now he wants
in the closet, now he's out and mewing 
and mewing and meowing and rawling
and laying down and jumping and typing himself,
I rest my forehead on his and he snorts,
bites at the wires on my desk, I push him off
I bite his ear, his stomach puffs and he opens 
my door

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