she's whistling and clapping
for the cats
at 2 a.m.
as I sit here
with my wine and my
Beethoven.
"they're just prowling," I
tell her...
Beethoven rattles his bones
in majesty.
and those damn cats
don't even care
about
any of that.
and
if they did
I wouldn't like them
at
all;
things begin to lose their
natural value
as they near
human
endeavor.
nothing against
Beethoven:
he did fine
for what he
was
but I wouldn't want
him
on my rug
with one leg
over his head
while
he was
licking
his balls.
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