Back to The Poems of Roy SchoenbergKahlua On The Spare Room Bed
The third resident, haughty and proud, ignores me,
doesn't care, while I clean the windows standing on a chair,
refuses even to elicit a feline vacuous casual stare.
Paws tucked inward, continues to rest, after all,
silent meow, "He's doing his best." Slight annoyances, looks away,
the third resident in this household not being waylaid.
My wife upset and I'm disturbed, war and killing,
we're unnerved, battle in Iraq, children starve,
what possesses man, immersed in executing death?
Cats are pure, they know what's set and blest,
don't build arms, don't trade guns, no patriotic fervor,
agile naturally, not angelic, have no God, idol or sage.
Loyalty, democracy never, no love of country, no biblical page.
Quirky behaviour, a passing fit and then disengaged,
just a domesticated pet, residential secure not caged.
No search for philosophy, no literary genius, hardly a fool,
no president or dictator, a creature free of rules,
an occasional foray, runs away, nobody's knave, serf or fool.
March 2003 - Author: Roy Schoenberg - Bay Shore, New York, USABack to The Poems of Roy Schoenberg