This little golden guy
With matching socks
Who boasts a scant eight pounds
Can wrap me quite around
His taloned toes
With at most a single mew.
Wedge-shaped face,
Amber eyes, moist nose,
More fur than flesh,
His favorite fun’s
A lightning run across the house
With punctuating leaps.
Any minute now
As I sit here at my desk
I’ll feel his fluff against my
Bare defenseless legs,
His paw upon my thigh,
Demanding pats and pets.
And my equally defenseless heart
Will melt and lead me to
The dubious decision
That I should pick him up –
Followed half the time
By gallops to the Band Aid box.
©2010 John I. Blair
