I often start a poem while reclining on my living room couch. The first lines sometimes sit down next to me, like a smart woman wearing a blouse with one unfastened button too many. My nosey cat, Rosie, understands that writing poetry shouldn’t be so easy. She doesn’t wear a blouse, but she understands a lot about buttons.

Rosie

Rosie, I’m trying to write!
While you examine my leg
with unmanicured nails,
and sound my heart with purrs,
you bother my hand with
your head hard as marriage
(yet, warm as your affairs).
I’m arguing with myself,
and fighting presbyopia.
Have what you want!
Must this be all I get:
a wrinkled impression
of the man on the moon
I see at the base of your tail?

G W Sisk

June 26, 2011