O might there be a scrap for me?
A piece of cheese, a streak of ghee?
A school of catfish in a lake?
a cherry pie,
a chocolate cake?
An ear of corn, a stalk of wheat?
A pound of ham? A sack of meat?
O can't you see my furtive glance?
My stumbling lurch?
My open hand?
My faith in god in disarray?
My empty dish and watchful eye?
By night, I sniff for chicken bones,
betwixt these dry & shriveled moans,
"Dear Sir,
I beg to be set free
--that I were you
and you were me."
sincerely, your cat
