My nose deep in a forest of fleas, Warmed from the November breeze, The scent of our kitchen, bacon, grease, Clings to each downy hair. The orange light, glowing through stained lace curtains, Glistens on your dew-beaded fur. You slip, jump, Disappear through the flap in the door. An hour later and I sit at my desk, Mouse in hand, wine in other. You appear, as always, from nowhere. You sit, your head inches below my chin. Damp rotting leaves, bonfires, wind... It’s all there. And then you’re gone in the wink of the eye, The fold of the curtain. I can’t hear your footsteps on the gravel.
Aw! I miss my cat! This was cool! They always smell of outside. If I wrote this poem I'd have to end it in a fit of sneezing because her hair always got up my nose.
