In the taxonomy of living things
our cat belongs in the category of cranky old uncles,
grudgingly good humoured as long as you
keep open the supply chain of chicken and Cuban cigars.
We suspect he runs the world,
in sleepy allegiance
with all the other old cats
dozing on couches and porches
around the globe.
Without stridency of tone
or visible effort
beyond a certain personal charm,
they have kneaded and slept
their way to the top,
sending humans out each day
to earn money for catnip and canned food
while they nap and dream,
Benevolent dictators
of the perfect world that is.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 