Could I incorporate your hairs,
your rhythmic, slanting, green-eyed stares,
aggressive purr, that tail you switch
into my verse, I might not pitch
your cuddly crescent on the floor
as I have done five times before;
as you stretch out upon my page
I learn how close are love and rage.
But since you can’t fit in a line,
And I can’t write words on your spine,
Or make your fur a perfect rhyme,
Or use your purr to help keep time,
I’ll open up a can of chow
And trust you’ll go away for now.
Katherine Barrett Swett’s chapbook, Twenty-One, was published in 2016 by Finishing Line Press. Her poems appeared recently in Rattle and The Lyric and are forthcoming in Mezzo Cammin. She lives in New York City.