Chester

The cat of which

I scrawl

is but a menace.

He doesn’t make

an attempt

at being cute.

His purr is like a

Dodge without a muffler.

He will bite you

to the bone

and meow it’s love.

I bet that he was

birthed

in smugglers’ alley,

in a litter

among the litter,

taking a dump

wherever he pleased.

His papa

was a pirate,

felling Puss in Boots;

his mama vowed

to never have sex

again.

And he’ll watch with

glee the mouse that

gets away, laughing

at our traps, downing

the block of brie

we leave at midnight

as a bait.

He’s never done a

thing to help us out;

merely shrugs

with his indifference

to our pain, our sodden

handkerchief, thinking

he may use it

as a toy.

You tell me every

cat’s a booger

and you’re right.

He plays us

like a fiddle

on the roof. Leaves us

for the larks

to paint us white.

He devoured

all our chocolates

by the tree, then knocked

it down at Christmas

as he peed. Sits

upon our laptop

as if it was made

to warm his ass. Scratched

up every Warhol

in his reach. Our sofa

like the Passion

of the Christ.

And yet we

still adore him,

cradle him in our arms,

like the chubby,

newborn babe

we never had,

his broadening

Cheshire grin

amid our cuddles,

our stupid, googly

eyes,

a canary

in his gullet

we thought had flitted

out the window

to be free.

Andreas Gripp

June 5, 2025

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